Yet oh!-not many a suffering hour,
Thy cup of shame by man was giv’n ;
Benignly came some pitying power,
And took the Lyre and thee to heaven!
Dris

There, as thy lover as the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lov'st to hear

The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs!

Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move; Still, breathing o'er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love!

то

THE FLYING-FISH'.

WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,
And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,

It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance, which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them; συγγένειαν τοις πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

But takes the plume that God has given, And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air, in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink!

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak:
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow,

And plunge again to depths below;
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there!

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

IN days, my KATE, when life was new,
When, lull'd with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And bless'd them into pure repose!
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I linger'd from your arms away,

How long the little absence seem'd! How bright the look of welcome beam'd, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that pass'd the while! Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere ev'n your seal can reach mine eye; And oh! ev'n then, that darling seal, (Upon whose print, I us'd to feel The breath of home, the cordial air Of loved lips, still freshly there!) Must come, alas! through every fate Of time and distance, cold and late, When the dear hand, whose touches fill'd The leaf with sweetness may be chill'd! But hence, that gloomy thought! at last, Beloved Kate! the waves are past: I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar's living bough Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude's divinest dies!

D