Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream
I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream;
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights
On Donington's green lawn and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er
When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore,
With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side,
A sister's idol and a nation's pride!
When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye
Turn to the living hero, while it read,

For pure and bright'ning comments on the dead;-
Or whether memory to my mind recalls
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,
When guests have met around the sparkling board,
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd;
When the bright future star of England's throne,
With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,
Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire ;—
Whatever hue my recollections take,
Even the regret the very pain they wake
Is mix'd with happiness;-but ah! no more-

Lady! adieu-my heart has linger'd o'er

Those vanish'd times, till all that round me lies,

Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

'Twas but for a moment-and yet in that time She crowded th' impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,

Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower.

Oh! could we have borrow'd from Time but a day,
To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we should look and imagine and say
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing,
And, between us, should feel just as much in a week
As others would take a millennium in feeling.

IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE, LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 180 1.

SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark,

Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?

Her sails are full,-though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say what doth that vessel of darkness bear ?
The silent calm of the grave is there,

Save now and again a death-knell rung,

And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore

Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE,

ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, OCTOBER, 1804.

Νιστου προφασις γλυκερου.

PINDAR, Pyth. 4.

WITH triumph this morning, oh Boston! I hail
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,
And that chill Nova Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.
Well-peace to the land may her sons know, at length,
That in high-minded honour lies liberty's strength,
That though man be as free as the fetterless wind,
As the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast,
If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it pass'd,
Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,-
Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret ;
May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget,
The delight of those evenings,-too brief a delight!
When in converse and song we have stol'n on the night;
When they've ask'd 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 ador'd,
Whose name had oft hallow'd the wine-cup they pour'd;
And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew,
They have listen'd, and sigh'd that the powerful stream
Of America's empire should pass, like a dream,
Without leaving one relic 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 deceiv'd me or sorrow deprest.

But, Douglas! while thus I recall 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 tract of the line, not a barbarous shore,
That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore!
Oh think then how gladly 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 enshrin'd;
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 top-sails are ready to swellTo the boat-I am with thee-Columbia, farewell!

SONG.

As Love, one summer eve, was straying,
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bow'r.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,

As woman will be woman still.

Though seldom yet the boy hath giv❜n

To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas look'd that ev'n,

Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that, by a shady rill,
At sunset hour, whate'er her learning,
A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he prais'd in terms extatic,—
Wishing it dumb, nor car'd how soon;
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,

To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,

The nymph found breath to shake and trill;

As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter—

Woman, at heart, is woman still.

Love chang'd his plan, with warmth exclaiming, "How rosy was her lip's soft dye!"

And much that flute, the flatt'rer, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.

The nymph look'd down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,

And started, shock'd-for, ah, ye creatures !
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.