SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE.

OH! Spirit of the Breeze,

Who singest in the trees,

Making low music, while the young leaves dance;
Unveil, unveil to me

Thy beauty silently,

Let me thy bright eyes view, and dovelike countenance.

Oft doth my Fancy's eye

The Naiads fair espy,

Silently floating down some heaving stream;
And glisten as it sees

The green-rob'd Dryades,

Or Oreads dancing nightly by their Queen's pale beam. And I, on nights of June,

Have watch'd, beneath the Moon, The gambols quaint of many a gamesome Fay, Around the tiny throne

Of mirthful Oberon,

And his capricious Queen, proud-eyed Titania.

But, Spirit of the Breeze,
Whose noonday melodies,

And fragrant breath, soothe me so tenderly;
In vain I strive to view

Thy form's celestial hue,

Too shadowy a dream art thou to flit o'er Fancy's eye. Or art thou but a sound,

In fragrance floating round,

The whisper of some rural Deity;

Who, stretch'd in grotto calm,
With breath of purest balm,

Is warbling to the Nymph's delicious minstrelsy?

Oh! happy wandering thing,

Thus bearing on thy wing

Refreshing coolness, fragrance, and sweet sound;

How calmly dost thou stray

Through groves and meadows gay,

Still catching, as thou glidest on, new freshness from the ground.

Thou breathest on my brow,

I feel thy kisses now,

Thy cooling kisses :—but what charm was this?
For oh! those kisses bore

A joy unfelt before,

A momentary, strange, imaginative bliss.

From my distemper'd brain
Thou didst call up a train

Of recollections sweet, which long had slept ;
Almost before my eyes

I saw dear forms arise,

And cherish'd thoughts and feelings from their deep cells. crept.

Whence was this wondrous spell?
Thou sweet-voiced Spirit tell-

Oh! com'st thou from mine own Salopian hills?
Their freshness dost thou bring,
Thou blessed gale of Spring,

With soothing charms to win me from my dream of ills?

Oh! there did lurk beneath
The fragrance of thy breath

A dim emotion of remember'd joy;

And in thy voice I heard

Tones that my spirit stirr'd,

The kindly tones that spoke to me, and cheer'd me when a boy.

Hast thou not wandering been
Amid those valleys green,

Which bear the light print of my lov'd one's feet;

And as thou glidedst by,

Caught her most holy sigh?

I felt, I felt its fragrance in thy kiss so sweet.

And hast thou not stray'd o'er
Sabrina's grassy shore,

Sweetening thy cool breath with her springing flowers;
And pass'd the cot where dwell

They whom I love so well,

Beneath their arching trees, and honeysuckle bowers?

Bear'st thou not thence along
My dark-brow'd sister's song,

Her song so potent gentle hearts to move;
Whose sweet and maiden tone,

Perchance hath sweeter grown,

Now blended with the quiet sighs and tender notes of love?

Or she, the mild-ey'd maid,
Perchance by moonlight stray'd,

Quietly gazing at the silent sky;

When thou didst catch her thought,
With such calm rapture fraught,

To breathe it o'er my weary soul, deliciously.

Oh! thou hast nought to do
Upon the ocean blue,

Filling with busy breath the mariner's sails;
No worldly dull employment,

Thou bodyless enjoyment,

Is thine, nor aught hast thou to do with wild and warring gales.

But peacefully thou roamest,
And wheresoe'er thou comest,

Breathest around the freshness of the skies;

And on our hearts dost fling,

From thy enchanted wing,

Remembrances of absent love, calm thoughts, and happy sighs.

I know that thou art come
From my far-distant home,

And thy calm breathings tell what peace is there;

But, gentle, say, returning,
Say not my soul is burning

With disappointment's bitter sting and comfortless despair.

Say that my spirit knows
Sweet moments of repose;

That dear and happy musings still are mine;

That Hope's bright dreams are flown,
But many a lingering tone

Of Memory's music lulls me yet to ecstacies divine.

JUAN.

CAERNARVON CASTLE.

EMBLEM of Cambria's bondage! loftiest pile!
That rear'st thy head above the Menai's roar ;
And look'st with frowning aspect on yon isle-
The Druids' sacred haunt in days of yore-
Can thy proud battlements, thy castled height,
Checking each manly thought, each feeling bright,
Grant to the despot, in his power elate,
Requital for an injured people's hate?

Oppression's strong resistless hand first traced
Thy firm foundation on the sea-girt plain;
And each rude stone upon its bosom placed,
Added a link to Cambria's lengthening chain.
Where is thy former greatness? where the pow'r
Which menaced vengeance from thine ancient tow'r?
Where is the might which freeborn souls enthrall'd?
And e'en Llewellyn's bravest bands appall'd?

Faded are now thy glories! nought is left

Of gilded pomp, of pageant, or of pride!
Thou stand'st, of all dismantled and bereft,
A lonely monument on Sciont's side!
Still art thou dignified! majestic still!
And long thy fabric will an awe instil
On minds subdued by Fancy's airy wand.
Amidst thy ruins beautifully grand!

No banners on thine Eagle Turret wave,

Plucked by a victor's hand from fields of blood! Thy sturdy bulwarks now can only brave

The dashing foam of Menai's angry flood.
No beacon blazes with its guardian light

From thy lone watch-tow'r. The approaching fight
No longer with its martial din alarms,
Nor calls thy hardy veterans to arms.

While on thy shatter'd battlements I gaze,
And mine eye wanders through thy vacant halls,
My musing mind reverts to other days,

And all thy grandeur, all thy pomp recalls.
There warriors bold have stalk'd in armour mail'd-
There festive mirth and laughter have prevail'd-
There kings have ruled in majesty and pride-
And courtly knights at Beauty's feet have sigh'd.

Where o'er the moat the drawbridge once was seen,
And ponderous gate on massive hinges stood,
Through yonder portal, enter'd England's Queen,
Pregnant with hapless Cambria's servitude.
Alas! poor Eleanor! thy deepest throes
Were more embitter'd by a nation's woes;
The pangs, which in thy bosom thou didst nurse,
Were made more poignant by a nation's curse.

Hark! what wild shrieks from yonder lowly cell,
Through stately halls and fretted galleries flow;
Resounding far with agonizing yell,

From triple Snowdon's height to Penmaen's brow ; Deep in each soul hath sunk that groan of death,The struggling effort of expiring breath! Woe to their country! at that fatal stroke

The tuneful chord of Cambria's harp was broke.

Insatiate monster! could the hoary head
Receive no reverence from heart like thine?

Was not the Royal Chief in fetters led,
An ample victim at thine honour's shrine?