Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream
I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream;
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights
On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights!

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er
When I have seen thee cull the blooms of lore,
With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side,
A sister's idol and a nation's pride!

When thou hast read of heroes trophied high
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye
Turning to the living hero while it read,

For pure and brightening comments on the dead!
Or whether memory to my mind recalls
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,
When guests have met around the sparkling board.
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd;
When the bright future Star of England's Throne
With magic smile hath o'er the banquet shone,
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,
Glorious but mild, all softness yet all fire!—
Whatever hue my recollections take,
Even the regret, the very pain they wake
Is dear and exquisite !-but oh! no more-
Lady! adieu-my heart has linger'd o'er

These vanish'd times, till all that round me lies,
Streams, banks, and bowers, have faded on my eyes!

"TWAS but for a moment-and yet in that time
She crowded th' impressions of many an hour:
Her eye had a glow like the sun of her clime,
Which waked every feeling at once into flower!
Oh! could we have spent but one rapturous day
To renew such impressions again and again,
The things we should look and imagine and say
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then
What we had not the leisure or language to speak,
We should find some ethereal mode of revealing,
And between us should feel just as much in a week
As others would take a millennium in feeling!

WRITTEN ON PASSING DEAD-MAN'S ISLAND.*

IN THE GULF OF ST LAWRENCE, LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPT. 1804.

SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark,

Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark?

Her sails are full, though the wind is still,

And there blows not a breath her sails to fill !

Oh! what doth that vessel of darkness bear?
The silent calm of the grave is there,
Save now and again a death-knell rung,

And the flap of the sails, with night-fog hung!

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariners bones are tost!

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire that lights her deck
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the church-yard dew!

To Dead-Man's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Dead-Man's Isle, she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,

And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible bark! ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE,

COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN J. E. DOUGLAS,

ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1804.
WITH triumph, this morning, O Boston! I hail
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,

*This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who call this ghost ship, I think, "The Flying Dutchman."

And that chill Nova Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.

Well, peace to the land! may the people, at length,
Know that freedom is bliss, but that honour is strength;
That though man have the wings of the fetterless wind,
Of the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet if health do not sweeten the blast with her bloom,
Nor virtue's aroma its pathway perfume,

Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight,
That but wanders to ruin and wantons to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret, May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget, That communion of heart and that parley of soul Which has lengthen'd our nights and illumined our bowl, When they've ask'd me the manners, the mind, or the mien, Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen, Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored, Whose name often hallow'd the juice of their board! And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

I told them each luminous trait that I knew,

They have listen'd and sigh'd that the powerful stream
Of America's empire should pass like a dream,
Without leaving one fragment of genius to say
How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd away!
Farewell to the few-though we never may meet
On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet
To think that, whenever my song or my name
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same
I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,
Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow depress'd!

But, Douglas! while thus I endear to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye, As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight, And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side, With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide, There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze, Not a track of the line, not a barbarous shore, That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! Oh! think, then, how happy I follow thee now, When hope smoothes the billowy path of our prow And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home where my heart is enshrined;