SONNET TO A TAPER.

‘ Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,

And all is silence — in the hour of sleep;

Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.

I wake alone to listen and to weep,

To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn;

And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,

To think of days that never can return.

By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,

My eye surveys the solitary gloom;

And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread,

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.

Like thee I wane;— like thine my life's last ray

Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.