Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse
Attuned to love her languid lyre;
But now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;
E- is a wife, and C a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;

And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall:
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee;
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,

These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with passion's fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Described in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er,
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round,

Has thrice retraced her path of light,
And chased away the gloom profound,
I trust that we, my gentle friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And then with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shail pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease 'till Luna's waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

To a Lady.

On! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
"Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,-
For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.

Yet, even in these a thought will steal
In spite of every vain endeavour,-
And fiends might pity what I feel,-
To know that thou art lost for ever.

I would I were a careless Child.

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll,

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,

1 hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart-is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,

To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom, may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.

When I roved a young Highlander.

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:

N