WENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form
Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine
This precious Ringlet!--still the soft hairs shine,
Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm
With sunny gleam!--Alas! each kindred charm
Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine
Wither'd to shapeless Dust!--and of their grace
Memory alone retains the faithful trace.--
Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now
Time on her brow had faded thee!--My care
Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;
And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,
Thou _all_ of that fair Frame my love cou'd save
From the resistless ravage of the GRAVE!

SONNET LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave
Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon
Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;
And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
The rous'd and turbid River surges down,
Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
Appals the Sense.--Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid
Steals towards the flood!--Alas!--for now appears
Her Lover's vacant boat!--the broken oars
Roll down the tide!--What images invade!
Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

SONNET LXXXIII.

ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSE
SWALLOWED UP BY EARTHQUAKE.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

Here, from laborious Art, proud TOWNS, ye rose!
Here, in an instant, sunk!--nor ought remains
Of all ye were!--on the wide, lonely plains
Not e'en a stone, that might these words disclose,
"Here stood CATANIA;"--or whose surface shows
That this was SYRACUSE:--but louring reigns
A trackless DESOLATION.--Dim Domains!
Pale, mournful Strand! how oft, with anxious throes,
Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!--
A SILENCE--a fix'd HORROR sears my soul,
Arrests my foot!--Dread DOOM of human crimes,
What art thou?--Ye o'erwhelmed Cities, rise!
That your terrific skeletons may scowl
Portentous warning to succeeding Times!

SONNET LXXXIV.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,
Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
November, dragging on his sunless day,
Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields;
And Nature to the waste dominion yields,