Volume 51 — SONNET.

Wouldst thou be happy, friend, forget, forget. A curse—no blessing—Memory, thou art; The very torment of a human heart. Ah! yes, I thought, I still am young; and let My heart but beat, I can be happy yet. Upon a friendly face clear shone the light; Without, low moaned the mountain's winds, and night Closed our warm home—sad words of fond regret. A voice which in my ear no more shall ring; A look estranged in hate like lightning came, My very soul within me died as flame By strong wind spent. It was not grief, for dead Was grief; nor love, for love in wrath had fled; It was of both the last undying sting!