Sing to me, love !—though death were near, Thy song could make my soul forgetNay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,

All may be well, be happy yet!

Let me but see that snowy arm
Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,

Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh!

Give me the strain, of mournful touch,
We us'd to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
As now, alas! they bleed to know!

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace, Of all, that look'd so rapturous then, Now wither'd, lost-oh! pray thee, cease, I cannot bear those sounds again!

Art thou too wretched ? yes, thou art;
I see thy tears flow fast with mine-
Come, come to this devoted heart,

'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!

WRITTEN ON PASSING DEADMAN'S
ISLAND,*

IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE, LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

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!

Oh! 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!

This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who call this ghost-ship, I think, "The flying Dutchman."

We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to Halifax, and I had been so spoiled by the very splendid hospitality with which my friends of the Phaeton and Boston had treated me, that I was but ill prepared to encounter the miseries of a Canadian ship. The weather however was pleasant, and the scenery along the river delightful. Our passage through the Gut of Canso, with a bright sky and a fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic.

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 church-yard dew!

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,
And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible Bark! ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

ORIGINAL ADVERTISEMENTS

TO THE

IRISH MELODIES,

AND

THE PREFATORY LETTER ON MUSIC.