And oft, as passion's milder fire
Could love's communing calm allow,
The youth would make the grateful Lyre
A pillow for his angel's brow!

And while the melting vows she breath'd
On all its echoes wanton'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd,
Through golden mazes charm'd the sound!

Alas! their hearts but little thought,
While thus entranc'd they listening lay,
That every sound the Lyre was taught
Should linger long, and long betray!

Yet, who can blame the guiltless Lyre?
Long had its spirit learn'd to dwell
On every accent of desire,

That from their lips unconscious fell;

The falter'd name, the murmuring play,
The bashful sigh, the chiding dear,
The lisping things that love will say,
And all but love will blush to hear!

Till, so commingled with its soul

Was every blissful breathing grown,

That other sighs, unanswer'd stole,

Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur❜d tone.

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Unhappy nymph! thy hallow'd name
To every whispering lip was sigh'd;
Thy secret vow, thy pleas of shame
every ear in murmurs died!

On

The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand
Hung high amid the breezy groves,
To every passing gale that fann'd
Betray'd the mystery of

your loves!

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!

There, as thy lover dries 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, communc In sympathies of angel love!

ΤΟ

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,

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

* 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 ; συγγενειαν 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 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!

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EPISTLE II.

ΤΟ

MISS M****E.

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 blest 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,