The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of wo,
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;

Still, as long as life shall last,

From that shore we'll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,

Than dwell where mind cannot be free;
But bows beneath a despot's rod
E'en where it seeks to worship God.
Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

O, see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land, and other skies!
Columbian hills have met our view;
Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu!

Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.

As long as yonder firs shall spread
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head;
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land;

Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.

Now to the King of kings we'll raise
The pæan loud of sacred praise;

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze;

More loud than speak the rolling seas!

Happier lands have met our view!
England's shores, adieu! adieu !

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE SUN.

[Between the Flint and Oakmulge rivers, within the limits of the State of Georgia, is a vast marsh, which in the wet season is filled with water, and has the appearance of a lake. Here are a number of large islands or knolls of rich high land, one of which the Creek Indians, that formerly resided in the vicinity, were in the habit of representing as the most blissful spot on earth; inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women were remarkable for their beneficence, as well as their incomparable beauty. They called them the Daughters of the Sun.-See Bartram's Travels, p. 25.]

OH, their's is the lonely Isle of flowers,

And at morning and eve though laurel groves,
The voice of music is heard in their bowers,
And the wild deer listens, that thither roves.

The dew-drops of heaven their radiance fling,
O'er the breathing woods, that brightly smile;
And the blooming cest of an endless spring
Is shining around that happy Isle.

No sorrow their radiant cheeks to shade,

Their hands and their hearts are fondly one;
And the notes, by their fairy fingers played,
In mingling tides of rapture run.

And never the white dove sailing by,

Nor the star of evening's pensive reign, With those hearts of light and love could vie, The bosoms undimmed by folly's stain.

THE BOWER.

THE bower you taught for me to bloom,
As bright will shed its tints and perfume,
As if the hand, that decked it, were there,
Its hues and its balmy breath to share.

The warbler, whose sweet, entrancing strain
Sunk deep in the heart, till joy grew pain,
Will utter his notes as soft and clear,
As when we both were lingering near.

But the brightest array of nature's dress,
Though floating in light and loveliness,
Has never worn half so bright a hue,
As when we both her witchery knew.

And the music at evening's pensive hour,
That hallows our dew-besprinkled bower,
Has never beguiled a tear from me,
Which memory did not gild for Thee.

THE DESERTED ISLAND.

FROM Our lovely retreat, when forever we part,
Where smile answered smile, and where heart beat to heart ;
Oh, how often and fondly, though far we may be,

Will we think, thou blest Isle, of each other and thee.

We gazed on the waters. How gently they threw, To the sands that embrace thee, their circles of blue; Then passed they to ocean, nor thought to delay;

So embraced we each other,

and so haste away.

Though the flowers of thy borders grow faded and sear,
Though the waves that caress thee so soon disappear;
In souls like thy waters unruffled and pure,

The love, that we cherished, shall always endure.

Oh, the noon of our gladness, how soon 't is o'ercast!
Adieu, ye enchantments, too lovely to last;
We'll go from the haunts where the blue billows roll,
But the Isle and its waters shall live in the soul.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

I WOULD that I could sing the song,
I sung beneath my native sky;
But something tells me 't would be wrong
That note of joy again to try.

When winter comes, we list in vain

To hear the merry birds of June;
Then ask me not to breathe the strain,
Until the spirit is in tune.

For now, a wanderer far away,"

Another stream and vales I view ;

And if I poured the joyful lay,

My heart would answer, 't is not true.

No lover sings the song of bliss,

When from his bosom's mate he 's parted;

The exile's soul, no less than his,

Is lone, and sad, and broken-hearted.

Oh, when I breathe my native air,
And tread once more my native plain;
Then shall my heart its joy repair,
My tongue repeat its song again.

WHEN AUTUMN'S STAR WAS BRIGHTLY BEAMING.

I.

WHEN autumn's star was brightly beaming
And shed on earth its silver ray;
When autumn's sky was redly gleaming
With the last fires of parting day;
Upon a cliff, that proudly blended
Its flinty bosom, frowning high,
With crimson-tinted clouds and sky,
Swiftly a virgin form ascended.

'T was Freedom's self that rose,
And how her bright eye glows,
As warning sound, around, around,
With voice divine she throws.

II.

"Columbia's sons! Your fathers firing,
The flame of freedom in them grew;
Against oppression's chains conspiring,
They fought, but not alone for you.