Thy chalky cliffs are fading from my view,
Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea,
I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu,
Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee,
Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy,
Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight,
Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me

The food of my soul's youthful appetite,-
Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight.

I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold,
Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye;
I never mused on valour, but the old
Memorials of thy haughty chivalry
Filled my expanding soul with extasy ;
And when I thought on wisdom and the crown
The muses give, with exultation high,

I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown.

When my young heart, in life's gay morning ur,
At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm,
Her voice came to me from an English bower,
And English were the smiles that wrought the charm;
And if, when wrapt asleep on Fancy's arm,
Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered,
Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm,

For one by absence and long toil endeared,
The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared.

Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone ;
And mayest thou still thy ancient dowry keep,
To be a mark to guide the nations on,
Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep ;-

Still mayest thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep,
And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night
That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep

Starting, remotest nations see the light,
And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might.

Strong in thy strength I go, and wheresoe'er
My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget
All that I owe to thee; and O may ne'er
My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt!
And what, if far from thee my star must set,
Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear
The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet,

And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's desarts drear.

Yet I will not profane a charge like mine,
With melancholy bodings, nor believe,
That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine
Of my own heart, spake only to deceive;
I trust its promise, that I go to weave
A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet
Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave

Of all its fragrance,—that I yet shall greet
Once more the ocean queen, and throw it at her feet.
London Magazine.



We pledged our hearts, my love and I,

I in my arms the maiden clasping ;
I could not tell the reason why,

But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain ;

I went and shook like any reed !
I strove to act the man-in vain !

We had exchanged our hearts indeed.



0, thou ! by whose expressive art

Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces, start,

And sweeter by reflection please! In whose creative hand the hues

Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine ! I bless thee, Promethēan Muse,

And hail thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than mortal power !

Persuasive more than poet's tongue ! Whose lineage in a raptured hour,

From Love, the lord of Nature, sprung! Does Hope her high possession meet ?

Is joy triumphant,-sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet,

When all we love is all our own.

But hush, thou pulse of pleasure dear ;

Slow, throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart; Then for a beam of joy, to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye; To banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall song its witching cadence roll ;

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat ; What visions rise to charm, to melt!

The lost, the loved, the dead are near; Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt,

And cease that solace too severe.

But thou serenely silent art,

By heaven and love both taught to lend A milder solace to the heart

The sacred image of a friend; All is not lost if yet possest

For me that sweet memorial shine, If close and closer to my breast

I hold the image all divine.

Or gazing through luxuriant tears,

Melt over the departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm ;
She looks, she lives, this tranced hour

Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or Glory's starry diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given, When Beauty's canonized shade

Smiles through the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre form of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead,

Even in the loveliest garb she wore.

Then blest be Nature's guardian muse,

Whose hand her polished grace redeems ; Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems; From Love began thy high descent ;

And lovers charmed with gifts of thine, Shall bless thee,-mutely eloquent,

And hail thee brightest of the NINE ! Literary Gazette.



Night is the time for rest ;

How sweet when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose;
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed !

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is and truth that seems

Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !

Night is the time for toil ;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years !
Hopes that were Angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things on earth !

Night is the time to watch ;

On ocean's dark expanse ; To hail the Peliades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.

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