Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale

That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;

She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore

Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore,
Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,

Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze:
Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain,
Till memory fled her agonizing brain :-
But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,
Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er bestow;
Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,
And aimless HOPE delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky,

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,

Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep
That constant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that sooths, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,

But found not pity when it err'd no more.

Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye

Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and passes by;
Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home-
Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,

Leans o'er its humble gate, & thinks the while,
Ch that for
me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade to yield my sickly form.
Health in the breeze. & shelter in the storm.

Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green, Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the whileOh! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form

Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!

There should my hand no stinted boon assign

To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine!—
That generous wish can sooth unpitied care,
And HOPE half mingles with the poor man's prayer.

HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;