I meet her mild and quiet eye,
Drink the warm spirit of her sigh,
See young love beating in her breast,
And wish to mine its pulses prest,

God knows how fervently!

Such are my hours of dear delight,
And morn but makes me wish for night,
And think how swift the minutes flew,
When last among the dropping dew
I wander'd silently.

TO A WATER-FOWL.

BRYANT,

(An American Poet.)

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heav'ns with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight, to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chaf'd Ocean-tide?

There is a Power, whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wand'ring, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cool thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon thy toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone; th' abyss of heav'n

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast giv❜n, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

MOIR.

FAR from my native land I stray,
By fortune's favouring smiles unblest;
No comforts glad my weary way,
No home invites my steps to rest.

Here glowing tints adorn the tree,

And Nature spreads her bounteous store;
But what are they, when far from thee,
My native shore-my native shore?

When sadly musing on my lot,

On joys that can no more return,

Hope bids me leave the sick'ning thought,
And learn to smile, and cease to mourn.
Relenting Fate may kinder be,

And every long-lost scene restore;
My home-my friends-my all-and thee,
My native shore-my native shore !

I hop'd, when youth and strength should fail,
To dwell within thy valleys green;
To pause on life's mysterious tale,
On childhood's sweet, endearing scene:
But fate intrudes her stern decree,
And dooms me hopeless to deplore,
A wand'ring exile, far from thee,
My native shore-my native shore !

I live without a smile I live;
I die-without a friend I die-
A tear for me, ah! none shall give;
Unhonour'd shall my ashes lie!
No tender wife shall mourn for me;
No child shall sob or murmur sore;
Depriv'd of all, and far from thee,
My native shore-my native shore!

Oh! that in thee I could but die!
No other spot of ground I crave,
Save that wherein my fathers lie,

To their poor son to yield a grave!
But, ah! I dwell beyond the sea,
No friend to cheer me, or deplore;
My bones must moulder far from thee,
My native shore-my native shore !

Yet will I love thee not the less,
Although for me thou smil'st in vain ;

Still, still, my lips thy name will bless,
Though I behold not thee again :
And, when the close of life I see,
Ere its unjoyous scene be o'er,
My last fond thought will be of thee,
My native shore-my native shore !

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.

GOLDSMITH.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

SONG OF A SPIRIT.

MRS RADCLIFFE.

In the sightless air I dwell,

On the sloping sun-beams play;
Delve the cavern's inmost cell,

Where never yet did day-light stray:

I dive beneath the green sea waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;

Skim ev'ry shore that Neptune laves,
From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force

Above the wide earth's shadowy zone; Follow the day-star's flaming course

Through realms of space to thought unknown;

And listen to celestial sounds

That swell in air, unheard of men,
As I watch my nightly rounds,
O'er woody steep, and silent glen.

Under the shade of waving trees,
On the green bank of fountain clear,
At pensive eve I sit at ease,

While dying music murmurs near.

And oft, on point of airy clift,

That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift, And twilight veil the liquid plain.

Then, when the breeze has sunk away,
And ocean scarce is heard to lave,
For me the sea-nymphs softly play
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave.

Their dulcet shells!-I hear them now;
Slow swells the strain upon mine ear;
Now faintly falls-now warbles low,
Till rapture melts into a tear.

The ray that silvers o'er the dew,

And trembles through the leafy shade,
And tints the scene with softer hue,
Calls me to rove the lonely glade;