This hour of bliss will make amends

For all my darkling days of sadness;

The fond embrace of loving friends

Will fill the heart with gladness.

The meeting hour-when years have pastOf long lost friends, is Joy's bright reign;

Tis like the giving back the dead

To bless our arms again.

And, when the blissful hour is past,

How sweet! to tell our wanderings o'er.

Since first we parted, till at last

We met, to part no more:

To spend in Friendship's pure delights

The remnant of Life's little day,

Whilst summer eves, and wintr'y nights,

Speed joyfully away.

How sweet! the Summer Evening walk,

Mid scenes of youth we lov'd so well,

Of youthful days, and joys to talk,

And youthful loves to tell :

To speak of those we lov'd so dearly,

FE

With whom these scenes we've wander'd o'er,

Of those who lov'd us- how sincerely!

But who are now no more.

What joy! around the social hearth

Our wintry nights to wile away,

In converse sweet, and cheering mirth,

As innocent as gay.

How sweet! to think we ne'er shall part

From those we love, till death shall sever,

But be united heart with heart

Entwin'd in love for ever.

But sweeter, when they linger near

Our weary couch in Sorrow's day,

And pour the sympathetic tear,

To chase our cares away.

And in the last sad, trying hour

When most the parting soul requires

Fond Sympathy's consoling power,

As ebbing life expires—

O! then the drooping head to rest

On some fond breast, in love reclin❜d,

And feel the dying hand still prest,

In Friendship's grasp entwin'd ;

To bear the prayer of holy love

Pour'd forth from sacred lips around,

To speed the soul to God above,

To be with Jesus crown'd.

1

This, this, the parting soul will calm

'Midst all its mortal sufferings

'Tis sainted Friendship's sovereign balm,

From hallow'd fount that springs.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ABROAD, JUNE 1826.

Tis now the hour of midnight, still and deep,
And darkness casts her sable pall around:
Amid the solemn stillness so profound,
Whilst peaceful breasts are sunk in balmy sleep
All pensive, I, my lonely Vigils keep,

And thoughtful muse, by the pale taper's ray,
On joys so bright, so transient, pass'd away,

No more to bloom-albeit I wake to weep;
Or hold sweet converse with the sainted dead,
Who liv'd to teach, and lead, the path to Heaven;

And think how

soon

the grave

shall be

my

bed:

O may such joys as theirs to me be given,
Joys such as angel-tongues alone can tell,

And fond friends

weep

in hope, as tolls my funeral