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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,
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
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,
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;
The village church, among the trees,
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,
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.
THE sunbeams streak the azure skies,
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,
That very law which moulds a tear,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
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!