Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But, when the wind blows off the shore,

Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the day-light's past!

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the day-light's past!

I MORE THAN ONCE HAVE HEARD, AT NIGHT.

I MORE than once have heard, at night,
A song, like those thy lips have given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,

Who seem'd, like thee, to breathe of Heaven!

But this was all a dream of sleep,

And I have said, when morning shone,

"Oh! why should fairy Fancy keep

"These wonders for herself alone ?"

I knew not then that fate had lent

Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
A voice, a form like thine on earth!

And yet, in all that flowery maze

Through which my life has lov'd to tread, When I have heard the sweetest lays From lips of dearest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word
From beauty's mouth of perfume sighing,
Sweet as music's hallow'd bird
Upon a rose's bosom lying!

Though form and song at once combin'd Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sigh'd, my heart hath pin'd For something softer, lovelier still!

Oh! I have found it all, at last,

In thee, thou sweetest, living lyre, Through which the soul hath ever pass'd Its harmonizing breath of fire!

All that my best and wildest dream,
In fancy's hour, could hear or see
Of music's sigh, or beauty's beam
Are realiz'd at once, in thee!

LINES WRITTEN AT

THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK RIVER.

FROM rise of morn till set of sun
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,
And as I mark'd the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass;
And as I view'd the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untir'd and wild

Through shades that frown'd and flowers that

smil'd,

Flying by every green recess

That woo'd him to its calm caress,

Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,

As if to leave one look behind!

There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene, than the cultivated lands in the neighbourhood of Niagara. See the drawing of them in Mr. Weld's book. According to him, the perpendicular height of the Cohos Fall is fifty feet; but the Marquis de la Chastellux makes it seventy

six.

The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dissolving, as the spray rises into the light of the sun, is perhaps the most interesting beauty which these wonderful cataracts exhibit.

Oh! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd-
How like to thee, thou restless tide!
May be the lot, the life of him,

Who roams along thy water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of woe,
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many an humble, still retreat
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest!
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destin'd falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the lost current cease to run!
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine!
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee!

NO, NEVER SHALL MY SOUL FORGET,

No, never shall my soul forget

The friends I found so cordial-hearted;

Dear shall be the day we met,

And dear shall be the night we parted!

Oh! if regrets, however sweet,

Must with the lapse of time decay,
Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet,
Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the flame of memory found,
Alive, within your social glass,
Let that be still the magic round,

O'er which oblivion dares not pass !

COME, TAKE THAT HARP.

COME, take that harp-'tis vain to muse
Upon the gathering hills we see ;

Oh! take the harp and let me lose

All thoughts of ill in hearing thee!