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TRANSLATED

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not spare,
While heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,

That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

POEMS

OF A LATER DATE.

LOEN?

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TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked,

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Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,

And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!

When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I liv'd an unlov'd solitary thing;

Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,

The piercing cares that wore my youth away :
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel;

Even then I wept I had not power to heal :

Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,

I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's

doom.

Who were my friends in youth ?—The midnight fire

The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir;

To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight,

To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;

I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
for nature, and I weep for thee.

I weep

Yes, thou didst wrong me, ***; I fondly thought
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought
I fondly thought that thou could'st pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To sooth affliction in her darkest hour ;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine,

H. K. WHITE

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.

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