She vanish'd like a nightmare-dream,
And EDMUND stood alone.

Three days, bewildered and forlorn,
He sought his home in vain;
At length he hail'd the hoary thorn
That crown'd his native plain.

'Twas evening;

all the air was balm,

The heavens serenely clear;

When the soft music of a psalm

Came pensive o'er his ear.

""Tis she! 't is she!"- He burst away;

And bending o'er the spot

Where all that once was ELLA lay,

He all beside forgot.

A maniac now, in dumb despair,
With love-bewilder'd mien,

He wanders, weeps, and watches there,
Among the hillocks green.

And every Eve of pale ST. MARK,
As village hinds relate,

He walks with ELLA in the dark,
And reads the rolls of Fate.

HANNAH.

AT fond sixteen my roving heart

Was pierced by Love's delightful dart : Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, - I never felt so sweet a pain!

Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid :

I stole her hand,

it shrunk, — but no;

I would not let my captive go.

With all the fervency of youth,

While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my HANNAH's downcast eye —
"Twas kind, but beautifully shy:

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamor'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of Affliction rose,

And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

Yet, in the glory of my pride,

I stood,

I stood,

and all his wrath defied;

though whirlwinds shook my brain,

And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph; -and knew not why

I durst not meet her gentle eye;

I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.

'Twas on the merry morn of May,
TO HANNAH'S cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;

And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.

I saw the village steeple rise,
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear, -
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet: - all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday;

I met a wedding,- stepp'd aside;
It pass'd, my HANNAH was the bride.

There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal;

- it felt not then:

My heart grew cold,
When shall it cease to feel again?

A FIELD FLOWER.

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye,

That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,