"And with him from the sky he brings
"Our sister-nymph who dwells above-
"Oh! never may she haunt these springs
"With any other god but Love!

"When he illumes her magic urn,

"And sheds his own enchantments in it, "Though but a minute's space it burn, "'Tis heaven to breathe it but a minute!

"Not all the purest power we boast,
"Nor silken touch, nor vernal dye,
"Nor music, when it thrills the most,
"Nor balmy cup, nor perfume's sigh,

"Such transport to the soul can give,

66

Though felt till time itself shall wither,

"As in that one dear moment live,

"When Love conducts our sister hither!"

She ceas'd-the air respir'd of bliss-
A languor slept in every eye;
And now the scent of Cupid's kiss
Declar'd the melting power was nigh!

I saw them come-the nymph and boy,
In twisted wreaths of rapture bound;
I saw her light the urn of joy,

While all her sisters languish'd round!

A sigh from every bosom broke

I felt the flame's infectious charms,
Till in a throb of bliss I woke,

And found myself in FANNY's arms!

THE STEERSMAN'S SONG.

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE,

APRIL 28.*

WHEN freshly blows the northern gale,

And under courses snug we fly;
When lighter breezes swell the sail,
And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel unwearied still
I stand, and as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
I think of her I love, and cry

Port, my boy! port.

* I left Bermuda, in the Boston, about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the admiral, Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston, after a short cruise, proceeded to New-York.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close haul'd we go,
And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer

My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
I watch the sails, and, sighing, say,

Thus, my boy! thus.

But see, the wind draws kindly aft,
All hands are up, the yards to square,
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft
Our stately ship through waves and air.
Oh! then I think that yet for me

Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Some breeze may waft me, love,. to thee!
And in that hope I smiling sing,

TO CLOE.

Steady, boy! so.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.

I COULD resign that eye of blue,

Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me; And, though your lip be rich with dew, To lose it, CLOE, scarce would kill me.

L

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However warm I've twin'd about it;
And, though your bosom beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.

In short, I've learn❜d so well to fast,

That sooth, my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself, at last,

To do without you altogether!

FRAGMENTS OF A JOURNAL.*

TO G. M. Esq.

From Fredericksburgh, Virginia.↑

JUNE 2.

DEAR George, though every bone is aching,
After the shaking

I've had this week over ruts and ridges,
And bridges,

* These fragments form but a small part of a ridiculous medley of prose and doggerel, into which, for my amusement, I threw some of the incidents of my journey. If it were even in a more rational form, there is yet much of it too allusive and too personal for publication.

Having remained about a week at New-York, where I saw Madame Jerome Buonaparte, and felt a slight shock of an earthquake (the only things that particularly awakened my attention), I sailed again in the Boston for Norfolk, from whence I proceeded on my tour to the northward, through Williamsburgh, Richmond, &c. At Richmond there are a few men of considerable talents. Mr. Wickham, one of their celebrated legal characters, is a gentleman, whose manners and mode of life, would do honour to the most cultivated societies. Judge Marshall, the author of Washington's Life, is another very distinguished ornament of Richmond.. These gentlemen, I must observe, are of that respectable, but at present unpopular, party, the Federalists.

What Mr. Weld says of the continual necessity of balancing or trimming the stage, in passing over some of the wretch