Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume

The dim-ey'd tenant of the dungeon gloom,

A long lost friend, or hapless child restor❜d,

Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board;
Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow,
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe.

Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy

The shadowy forms of uncreated joy,

That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour

Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour.

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,

Pil'd 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 wand'rings never knew

The world's regard, that soothes, 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
Ev'n he, at evening, should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,
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 while
Oh! 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!

Burner del.

J. Stewart sculp

Seans ver its humble gale, thinks the while,
Oh that for
me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet strade to girl my sickly form,
Health in the breeze, shelter in the storm..