To Laura In Death. Sonnet XIV.

Alma felice, che sovente torni.     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.