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Stern duty rose, and frowning flung

His leaden chain around me; With iron look and sullen tongue

He muttered as he bound me—
'The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,

Unfit for toil the creature;
These for the free alone are given,—

But what have slaves with nature?'

Rev. C. Wolfe.


Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue,

Yet it was not that, that won me; But a little bright drop from her soul was there—

Tis that, that has undone me.

I might have passed that lovely cheek,
Nor, perchance, my heart have left me;

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,
Of my heart it for ever bereft me.


I might have forgotten that red, red lip—

Yet how from the thought to sever?
But there was a smile from the sunshine within,

And that smile I'll remember for ever.

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,

The elegant form that haunts me—
'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves

In every step, that enchants me.

Let me, not hear the nightingale sing,
Though I once in its notes delighted;

The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth,
Has left me no music beside it.

Who could blame, had I loved that face,
Ere my eye could twice explore her?

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there,
And her warm—warm heart, I adore her.

Rev. C. Wolfe.


Darwent! what scenes thy wandering waves behold, As bursting from thy hundred springs they stray,

And down those vales in sounding torrents rolled.
Seek to the shining east their mazy way?

Here thy dark alders leaning from the cliff
Dip their long arms, and wave their umbrage wide;
There, as emerging rocks alarm my skiff,
White moonlight dances on thy foaming tide.

Flow on, ye waves! where dressed in gorgeous pride,
Fair Chatsworth beams amidst her roseate bowers;
Spreads her smooth lawns along your willowy side,
And crests your woodlands with her gilded towers.
Flow on, ye waves! where nature's rudest child,
Frowning incumbent o'er the dusky floods,
Rock reared on rock, on mountain mountain piled,
Old Matlock sits, and shakes his crown of woods.
But when proud Derby's glittering vanes ye view,
When his gay maids your sparkling currents drink,
Should bright Eliza press the morning dew
And bend her graceful footsteps to your brink,
Stop, gentle waves! in circling eddies play,
And as your scaly squadrons play around,
O bid your nymphs with pencil fine pourtray
Her angel form upon your silver ground.

With playful malice from her kindled cheeks,
Steal the warm blush and tinge your passing stream,
Mock the sweet transient dimples as she speaks,
And as she turns her eye, reflect the beam.

And tell her, Darwent, as you murmur bye, How in these wilds with hopeless love 1 burn, Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh, And mix my briny sorrows with your urn!



The boatswain's shrill whistle piped all hands ahoy,

The word to weigh anchor was given;
When pale turned the cheek of the poor sailor boy,

His eyes were uplifted to heaven.
And was it dismay that affected his breast,

Or dread of the deep, that pervaded his feelings?
Ah no! 'twas a passion more keenly exprest,

'Twas the throb of affection—'twas nature's appealings?

To home and to kindred he'd bidden farewell!

He strove his sensations to smother,
But memory had bound round his bosom her spell,

And he mused on the words of his mother! 'My hope is thy conduct, thy father is dead,

Be true to thy king, and ne'er shrink from thy duty; The furrows of age on my temples are spread,

Thy sister has nought but her virtue and beauty.'


The sailor boy's cheek was bedewed with a tear,

His messmates beheld his emotion;
With hearty huzzas his young bosom they cheer,

It swelled with a loyal devotion.
Aloft up the shrouds to his duty he flew,

His heart glowed with courage, all obstacles braving, From his neck his dear sister's last token he drew,

The pledge of her love, from the top gallant waving.

G. Lewis.


Is thy face like thy mother's I my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house—and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted—not as now we part,

But with a hope..,..

, Awaking with a start

The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices ;—I depart
Whither I know not—but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve—or glad mine

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