But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on echo still through all her song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair :

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown
Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat.

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mein :

While each strain'd ball of sight — seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state.

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay,

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,)
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green :

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But, soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Temple's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,

(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,)
And he amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

COLLINS.

THE MARINER'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood sideways, half cover'd with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call..

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse

all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest·

66

"O God thou hast bless'd me

I ask for no more."

Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere !

He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,

Amazement confronts him with images dire-
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck -
The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!

Oh! sailor-boy, wo to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss Where now is the picture that fancy touch'd bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss?

Oh sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay: Unbless'd and unhonor'd, down deep in the main,

Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

On beds of green sea flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll

Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye

Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul !

DIMOND.

What shall I do? — whichever way I turn,
Scenes of incessant horror strike my eye;
Bare barren walls gloom formidably round,
And not a ray of hope is left to cheer.

Sorrowing and sick, the partner of my fate
Lies on her bed of straw-beside her, sad,
My children dear, cling to her breast and weep;
Or, press'd by hunger, hunt each nook for food,
And quite exhausted, climb these knees in vain -
Ah! looks too eloquent!·
Ye ask for bread-

And must Louisa then

too plainly mark'd;

I have no bread to give

our tender babes

Must they untimely sink into the grave?

Must all be victims to a fate so sore?

The world will nothing give but barren frowns:

What then remains?

I dare not enter

there stands the wretched hut Heaven befriend them all!

What then remains? - The night steals on apace;

The sick moon labors thro' the mixing clouds

O dire necessity!

Despair, do what thou wilt!

This forest gloom,

Made gloomier by the deep'ning shades of night,
Suits well the sad disorder of my soul:

The passing owl shrieks horrible her wail,

And conscience broods o'er her prophetic note;
Light springs the hare upon the wither'd leaf,
The rabbit frolics and the guilty mind
Starts at the sound, as at a giant's tread.