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GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;

The wind is bitter keen,- the snow o’erlays

The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow-ways, And darkness will involve thee. No kind star -To-night will guide thee, Traveller,—and the war

Of winds and elements, on thy head will break,

And in thy agonizing ear the shriek, Of spirits howling on their stormy car, Will often ring appalling-I portend

A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed

Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head, And him, who rides where wind and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.



This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, and was

occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much-respected Writer, for the permission so politely granted, to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions,

YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays,

“ Severest of those orders which belong,

“ Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,

Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys

Of its full harmony:--they fear to wrong The Sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet,

Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Of that so varied and peculiar frame.

O think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse sways.


Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition.

LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night,

Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,

Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,

Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,

And scorn to its wild cadence to conform,
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest-shade

With wildest song ;-Me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.

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SO ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the enfuriate gust, it did career,

might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr;-then it died,

Melting in melody;—and I descried

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear

Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear
Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied:
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,

Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,

By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds,
Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath,
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?


WHAT art thou, Mighty ONE! and where thy seat?

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands.

And thou dost bear within thine awful hands,
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet.
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud, and wind,

Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon,

Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Disturb’st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost thou repose? or in the solitude
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?
Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace,
Who glows through all the tields of boundless space.



BE hush'd be hush'd, ye bitter winds,

Ye pelting rains a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

T. at wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh, cruel was my faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid: Oh, cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exil'd from my native home,

He should have wip'd the bitter tear: Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wand'rer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep; Ah, little knows the hapless babe,

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,

I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

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