But why with sable wand unblest
Should Fancy rouse within my breast
Dim-visag'd shapes of dread?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,
And hovers round my head!

I felt it prompt the tender dream,
When slowly sunk the day's last gleam;
You rous'd each gentler sense
As sighing o'er the blossom's bloom
Meek evening makes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.

And hark, my love! the sea-breeze moans
Thro' yon reft house! o'er rolling stones
With broad impetuous sweep
The fast encroaching tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.

Dark-red'ning from the channel'd* isle
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)

The watchfire, like a sullen star,
Twinkles to many a dozing tar
Rude-cradled on the mast.

E'en there-beneath the light-house towerIn the tumultuous evil hour

*The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.

Ere peace with Sara came,

Time was,

I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,
And watch the troubled flame.

And there in black soul-jaundic'd fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd man to sit,
And listen to the roar :

When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plung'd foaming on the shore.

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark:
Her vain distress-guns hear:
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night-
To see no vessel there!

But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As skylarks mid the corn,

On summer fields she grounds her breast:
Th' oblivious poppy o'er her nest

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd rose ! From heav'n they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend;

Blest visitations from above:
Such are the tender woes of love
Fost'ring the heart they bend!

i

When stormy midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clatt'ring sound,

To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you'll say-To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch

The tears that tremble down your cheek,
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
In Pity's dew divine;

And from your heart the sighs that steal
Shall make your rising bosom feel
The answ'ring swell of mine!

How oft, my love! with shapings sweet
I paint the moment we shall meet!
With eager speed I dart

I seize you in the vacant air,
And fancy with a husband's care
I press you to my heart!

TO A FRIEND,

IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER.

AWAY, those cloudy looks, that lab'ring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
When the blind gamester throws a luckless die.

Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train :
To-morrow shall the many-colour'd main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

Wild, as th' autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o'er his mystic lyre! in shadowy dance
Th' alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance
Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

Bears on its wing each hour a load of fate;
The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild mur-
murs, led

His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled state.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary despot's might,
And haply hurl the pageant from his height
Unwept to wander in some savage isle.

There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest; And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest! Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.

SONNET.

PALE roamer through the night! thou poor forlorn !

Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to want and scorn!
The world is pitiless; the chaste one's pride,
Mimic of virtue, scowls on thy distress;
Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside,
And vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Men, born of woman, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of misery,
And force from famine the caress of love!
Man has no feeling for thy sore disgrace :
Keen blows the blast upon the moulting dove!