THE SAILOR.

1786.

THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colors mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.

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,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'erarch the golden tide.

But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

'T is she, 't is she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled;
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

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;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

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;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

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,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud,
Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high.

ON A TEAR.

O! THAT the chemist's magic art
Could crystallize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

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,
When first we feel the rude control
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.

1793.

THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
Worn to a shade and wan with slow decay,
A father sleeps! O, hushed be every sound!
Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away!

He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams
Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise;
Nor fly, till morning through the shutter streams,
And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies!

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