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.