« PreviousContinue »
THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he sees the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!
'T is she, 't is she herself! she waves her hand!
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.
AN ITALIAN SONG.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. THE sunbeams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.
From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Marked by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
ON A TEAR.
O! THAT the chemist's magic art
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell — The spring of Sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
That very law which moulds a tear,
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams