SONNET.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as, amid the leaves, the evening air Whispers still melody,—I think ere long, When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder, with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.