Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide

To some far-distant land adventurous bound, The sailors busy cries from side to side

Pealing among the echoing rocks. resound; A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,

Joyful they enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native land,

And know no care beyond the present day, But is there no poor mourner left behind,

Who sorrows for a child or husband there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind

Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer? So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind Go gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!


Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said,

And wisely was it he advised distrust.

The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage

Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increas'd thro' many an age,

And timidly did its light leaves unclose
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.

They to the summer cautiously expand,

And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.


O thou sweet Lark that in the heaven so high
Twinklest thy wings and singest merrily,

I watch thee soaring with no mean delight,
And when at last I turn mine aching eye

That lags, how far below thy lofty flight,
Still silently receive thy melody.
O thou sweet lark, that I had wings like thee !

Not for the joy it were in yon blue light

Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height Gaze on the creeping multitude below,

But that I soon would wing my eager flight To that loved place where Fancy even now

Has fled, and Hope looks onward thro' a tear, Counting the weary hours that keep her here.


Oh! 'tis a soft änd sorrow-soothing sight,

The mellow moon at evening to behold
Lay on the level lake her liquid light,

And gild the green grove with her yellow golā.
Sweet to the lonely wanderer then to walk
With none but solitude, and only talk

Of his own sorrows, by himself, alone.
To hear poor Philomela's plaintive tale,
And hearken oft upon the dank night gale,

In sudden whiz the drowsy beetle's drone. Sweet then to hear the owlet in the dale

Hoot from the hollow of her hallow'd throne, And trace so tranquil in her track of trail, Slow sliding o'er her slime, the slippery sleek slug snail,


Harriot, the smile that plays upon thy check

Whene'er I greet thee, and the thrilling glance

Of those bright orbs, that wakes me from the trance Where reason ponders, to my faint heart speak Love's language ; ardently could I rejoice

In such sweet tokens, but I fear thine eye

Has learnt to beam with love's hypocrisy, And siren wiles dwell in thy tuneful voice. For now with studied eloquence thy tongue

Yields to its task, that tongue which to my sense

Was wont e'erwhile such magic charms dispense, That on thy lips my trembling spirit hung, Waiting new life.-Oh free me from my pain, Speak as of yore, that I may love again. 1795


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