THE CAPTIVE,

COPIED FROM A SCRAP OF PAPER, WITHOUT A TITLE.

WHERE Missisipi's rapid wave
Rolls the gloomy woods among,
With dauntless soul a warrior brave,
Condemned to death by hateful foes,
Began his awful funeral song,
Bound to the stake where curling flames arose.

Around the pile the savage throng
With pleasure on his torments gaz'd,
And strove his sufferings to prolong
And check'd the mercy of the blaze.
They watch'd to see him writhe with pain,
They listen’d for his bursting sigh;
But courage prompts him to defy
Their deeds, and bids them watch in vain.

LINES,

Addressed to a lady who had written in the author's pocket-book,

Swift as a shadow.!”

“ SWIFT as a shadow!"- didst thou say?--
The truth of the remark I own:
For, though I linger here to-day,
To-morrow comes, and I am gone.

But, tho' I like a shadow flee,
A better doom I fain would claim;
And if in swiftness we agree,
Be our remembrance not the same!

For when the sun deserts the sky,
Or light clouds float along the wind,
The shade shall from the dial die,
Nor leave a single trace behind.

So light to pass, so soon forgot,
Oh tell me that I shall not be!
Sometimes remember'd be my lot,
Tho' far I go beyond the sea.

And as the vanish'd shade returns,
Though for a while it disappear,
So while each morn's fresh luştre burns
Friendship shall waft my wishes here.

LINES

ON SEEING A CROSS WORN ON A LADY'S BREAST.

MYSTERIOUS symbol! oft with fervent care Hath meek devotion lowly bow'd the knee, Breath'd with warm sighs the intermingled pray'r, And trac'd the sufferings of her God in thee.

But here unhonour'd and unknown thou art:
These ancient rites our colder faith denies;
Nor longer clasps thy image to the heart,
Nor bids thee awful o'er the altar rise.

Yet claim once more thy honours, and again Shall prostrate crowds thy matchless pow'r obey; For, though no more religion prompts thy reign, Yet beauty rules not with less potent sway.

On Delia's bosom borne, that sacred shrine
Shall all thy wonted sanctity restore-
Woe-worth the man that feels not warmth divine,
Nor suppliant kneels, sincerely to adore!

For in that bosom where thou lov'st to dwell,
Soft peace, and truth, and innocence reside,
And modest meekness finds her fav'rite cell,
And gay good humour, to good sense allied.

That seat of bliss thy custom'd homage keeps,
And, reverent at thy presence, I incline;
Nor ever pilgrim press'd thee to his lips
With half such rapture as I will to mine.

Still, mystic talisman! thy post maintain;
And let that fragrant shrine thy influence prove,
Free it from every trace of care or pain,
And guard its tenant from the traitor love:

Or, should some secret passion nestle there, With friendly magic blunt its pointed sting; Let not one anxious doubt the mansion share, But peace o'ershade it with her downy wing!

SONNET TO DELIA.

That won my

"TWAS not the liquid lustre of thine eye,

Nor thy fine form, to which might ill compare

The * bending statue, nor thy glossy hair, Nor thy cheek ting'd with health and beauty high, Nor yet thy honied lip, nor those bright rows Of pearl, thro' which thy breath more fragrant flows, Than balmy Zephyr when he wooes the May,

heart: for beauties I have known That almost equall'd thine, and have not lov'd!

It was thy gentleness my bosom mov’d, Thy heart to feel for others' miseries prone,

Thy converse sweet, and (unaffected) gay. These shall endure when other charms are past, And while these shall endure, so long my love shall