HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.

      O blessed spirit! who dost oft return,
    Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,
    From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,
    Has lit with all the lustres of the morn: 
    How am I gladden’d, that thou dost not scorn
    O’er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw! 
    Thus do I seem again to trace below
    Thy beauties, hovering o’er their loved sojourn. 
    There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been
    My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell—­
    Of thee!—­oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen. 
    One only solace cheers the wretched scene: 
    By many a sign I know thy coming well—­
    Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour’d green.

    WRANGHAM.

      When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,
    I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;
    Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam: 
    In all but frail mortality the same. 
    Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,
    Methinks I meet thee in each former scene: 
    Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;
    Now vocal only while I weep for thee. 
    For thee!—­ah, no!  From human ills secure. 
    Thy hallow’d soul exults in endless day;
    ’Tis I who linger on the toilsome way: 
    No balm relieves the anguish I endure;
    Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near
    To soothe my sufferings with an angel’s tear.

    ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XV.

Discolorato hai, Morte, il piu bel volto.

HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.

      Death, thou of fairest face hast ’reft the hue,
    And quench’d in deep thick night the brightest eyes,
    And loosed from all its tenderest, closest ties
    A spirit to faith and ardent virtue true. 
    In one short hour to all my bliss adieu! 
    Hush’d are those accents worthy of the skies,
    Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs;
    And all I hear is grief, and all I view. 
    Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish’d heart,
    By pity led, she comes my couch to seek,
    Nor find I other solace here below: 
    And if her thrilling tones my strain could speak
    And look divine, with Love’s enkindling dart
    Not man’s sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.

    WRANGHAM.

      Thou hast despoil’d the fairest face e’er seen—­
    Thou hast extinguish’d, Death, the brightest eyes,
    And snapp’d the cord in sunder of the ties
    Which bound that spirit brilliantly serene: 
    In one short moment all I love has been
    Torn from me, and dark silence now supplies
    Those gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs,