Lost in the foam nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.
Lost in the foam nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.
But, oh! what rapture fills each breast,
Of the hapless crew of the ship distress'd.
When landed safe, what joys to tell
Of all the dangers that befel,
Then is heard no more,
By the watch on the shore,
The minute gun at sea.
By the watch on the shore,
The minute gun at sea.
PEACE AND GLORY.
WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope that brighten'd
Honour's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be pluck'd again?
Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together;
Wander'd through the blessed isle.
And the eyes of peace would glisten,
Dewy as the morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.
"Is the hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph so fair, and guest so bright;
Yet the smile with which you vanish
Leaves behind a soothing light!
Soothing light! that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguine way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding Hope's consoling ray!
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,
While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you!
COME tell me blue ey'd stranger,
Say whither dost thou roam,
O'er this wide world a ranger,
Hast thou no friends, no home?
They call'd me blue eyed Mary,
When friends and fortune smil'd,
But ah! how fortunes vary,
I now am sorrow's child.
Come here I'll buy thy flowers,
And ease thy hapless lot,
Still wet with waning showers,
I'll buy, Forget me not,
Kind Sir, then take these posies,
They're fading like my youth,
But never like these roses,
Shall wither Mary's truth.
Look up thou poor forsaken,
I'll give thee house and home,
And if, I'm not mistaken,
Thou❜lt never wish to roam.
Born thus to weep my fortune,
Tho' poor I'll virtuous prove,
I early learnt this caution,
That pity is not love.
No, no sweet blue ey'd stranger
I'll give thee hand and heart,
Be not a friendless ranger,
We never more will part.
Once more I'm happy Mary,
Once more has fortune smil'd,
Who ne'er from virtue vary,
May yet be fortune's child.
AH! GENTLE MAID.
WRITTEN AND COMPOSED BY HENRY YOUNG, ESQ AH! gentle maid my heart is thine,
A victim at fair beauty's shrine:
If pity in thy bosom dwell,
Oh! sooth my woes, my griefs dispel.
The silent moon glides mildly shorn,
And night's dark gloom her smiles adorn; When those bright eyes their beams display, That moon with envy steals away.
May sweetest dreams thy pillow greet,
And cherub Sylphs around thee meet,
Tho' I in secret sadness rove,
To fan the flame of hopeless love.
BY J. M'CREERY.
Tune-Little Harvest Rose.
WHEN winter wing'd the blast with power,
To sweep the bending forest bare ;
Deep in the vale I found a flower,
A little rose that lingered there:
Though half its blushing sweets had fled,
And leaves were edged with winter snows,
Yet still the fragrant odour shed,
Declar'd love's emblem was a rose.
With cautious, though with eager haste,
I snatch'd the little fading prize;
Then in my bosom fondly prest,
The faintly blushing flowret lies;
I flew impatient, to my fair,
My heart with fond affection glows-
"A flower, my love, to deck your hair,
A little modest harvest rose.'
When first its vivid blooming hue,
The am'rous zephrys kiss'd with pride,
O! then, my sweet it look'd like you,
When first I clasp'd my blushing bride :
Its fragrance still, tho' fled the die,
Is thy pure soul where friendship glo ws
It proves, though love's warm ardours die,
That friendship lives-sweet harvest rose.
K
WRITTEN BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection recals them to view, The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild. wood,
And ev'ry lov'd spot which my infancy knew; The wide spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well, The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucketThe moss covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss covered vessel I hail as a treasure,
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure;
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow-
ing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it tell, Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, The old oaken bucket-the iron-bound bucketThe moss covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As pois'd on the cord, it inclined to my lips;
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far remov'd from the lov'd situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
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