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[Tune "When my money was gone that I gain'd in the wars.”]

HOW gloomy the evening! how dark is the sky,
With storm-bearing clouds overcast!
The rain in a deluge pours down from on high;
And the wind whistles shrill o'er the mast.

Thus while o'er the ocean unfriended I roam,
Cold and wet by the torrents that pour,
I sit to observe the wave break into foam,
Or to hear the wild winds as they roar.

Time was when thus lonely and cheerless to lie
Would have made me impatient repine,

And the wish for a calm would have brought forth a


From this unresting bosom of mine.

Time was-but it was ere the impulse of love Made my heart's hot blood quicker to roll, And the charms of Maria had taught me to prove Sweet delirium shed o'er the soul.

As the wretch whom hard nature has stinted of sight Sits for ever in darkness forlorn,

Nor e'er hail'd the day-spring with rising delight, Nor the mellow moon's westering horn.

So dark and uncheery my bosom remain'd,

To the soft throb of passion unknown,

Nor knew what delight was from love to be gain'd, Nor cared to think there were none.

But since first, lovely maiden, thy beauty I knew, My warm fancy doats on thy form;

'Mid the dark gloom of night it still dawns on my view

And steals me away from the storm.

Still then o'er my bosom thy empire maintain,
And chase every rude passion away;

For my soul shall not feel disappointment or pain While cheer'd by thy delicate sway.

But while thus in gay dreams I forget that I rove,
And thy voice in my ears seems to sound,
I awake-but ah! 'tis not the sweet sound of love,
'Tis the hollow wave dashing around.

And though to the soul the reflection be dear
To retrace each fond hour spent by me;
Yet, ah! my dear love, I still feel the salt tear
When I think that I wander from thee.


Written on passing in sight of the island of St. Mary, one of the Azores.

GIRT with rude rocks, whose foot the ocean laves, While o'er their steep the frequent tempests roar; St. Mary's! rising o'er the rolling waves,

The glad eye hails thy mist-encircled shore.

Fain o'er thy sun-clad summit would I rove,
Far o'er the sea the whitening sail to spy,
Or view, recumbent in thy citron grove,

The *falcon soaring through the cloudless sky.

For sure in this so far sequester'd isle

Shall simple truth and ancient faith be found,
Content on every face imprint a smile,

And care unhallow'd fly this favour'd ground;
And tranquil hope dispel each gloomy pain
That haunts the wanderer on the trackless main.

* From the number of these birds observed about them, these islands have their name, which is derived from a Portuguese word.


"What is life but to wake and to eat, to eat and to sleep gain?-And is this worth living for?"

HOW long shall lazy time around
His dull unvarying circle roll,
Till respite to my care be found,
And peace and quietude of soul?

Till I the promis'd shelter gain

Where worldly cares no more molest,
And where reliev'd from every pain,
The weary-laden are at rest?

Oh, Ruler of my wayward fate!

Thy guardian hand still let me own:
Still teach me humbly to await
Thy fiat as thou will'st it done.

If 'mid the gloom of night I stray,

A refuge from the storm to seek,
Oh frown not on my darkling way,
But guide me wandering, help me weak.

Cold, tasteless, in this spot below

Are all the boasted joys we prize,
Then bid me feel the truths I know,
Nor value aught beneath the skies.

For if thy favour thou bestow

Each earthly charm is instant flown; The light soul spurns the world below, On wild wing fluttering to be gone.

And though mortality's harsh chain
Forbid the pris❜ner yet to fly,

Thou, Lord! shalt burst her bonds again, And bid her seek her native sky.

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