And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.

Well-peace to the land! may the people, at length,
Know that freedom is bliss, but that honour is strength;
That though man have the wings of the fetterless wind,
Of the wantonest air that the north can unbind,

Yet if health do not sweeten the blast with her bloom,
Nor virtue's aroma its pathway perfume,

Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight,
That but wanders to ruin and wantons to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret. May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget, That communion of heart and that parley of soul

Which has lengthened our nights and illumined our bowl,

When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien,
Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen,
Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored,
Whose name often hallowed the juice of their board!
And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

I told them each luminous trait that I knew,

They have listened and sighed that the powerful stream
Of America's empire should pass like a dream,
Without leaving one fragment of genius, to say
How sublime was the tide which had vanished away!
Farewell to the few-though we never may meet
On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet
To think that, whenever my song or my name
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same
I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful and blest,
Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow depressed!

But, Douglas! while thus I endear to my mind
The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,
I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye,
As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,
That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight,
And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.
Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side,
With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide,
There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas,
Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze,
Not a track of the line, not a barbarous shore,

That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore!
Oh! think then how happy I follow thee now,

When hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,

And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind

Takes me nearer the home, where my heart is enshrined ;
Where the smile of a father shall meet me again,

And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain!

Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,
And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part !—

But see

the bent topsails are ready to swellTo the boat-I am with thee-Columbia, farewell!

TO LADY H— ?

N AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

Tunbridge-Wells, August 1805.

WHEN Grammont graced these happy springs,
And Tunbridge saw, upon her pantiles,

The merriest wight of all the kings

That ever ruled these gay gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walked,
At eve they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talked,
And lovely Stewart smiled like you!

The only different trait is this,

That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying "yes," Because as yet she knew no better!

Each night they held a coterie,

Where every fear to slumber charmed, Lovers were all they ought to be,

And husbands not the least alarmed!

They called up all their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,

And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.

As-"Why are husbands like the Mint?"
Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is just to set the name and print

That give a currency to beauty.

"Why is a garden's wildered maze

Like a young widow, fresh and fair?"

Because it wants some hand to raise

The weeds which "have no business there!"

And thus they missed, and thus they hit,

And now they struck, and now they parried,

And some lay in of full-grown wit,

While others of a pun miscarried.

'Twas one of those facetious nights

That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrum rites,
Or punning ill, or-some such thing.

From whence it can be fairly traced

Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it graced

The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then-to you,
O Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue,
To dedicate th' important chronicle.

Long may your ancient inmates give
Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's love in Heathcote live,
And Charles's bards revive in Rogers!

Let no pedantic fools be there,

For ever be those fops abolished,

With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, Heaven knows! not half so polished.

But still receive the mild, the gay,
The few who know the rare delight

Of reading Grammont every day,
And acting Grammont every night!

ΤΟ

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,

The lip that's so scented by roses
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science !

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemned but to read of enjoyments
Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books—
O Fanny! they're pitiful sages
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above, And Music must borrow your sigh

As the melody dearest to love.