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Even thou, as thou learnest to prate,

Dear babe-while remotely I rove— Shall count it a duty to hate

Where nature commands thee to love.

The foul tongue of malice shall peal
My vices, my faults, in thine ear,
And teach thee, with demon-like zeal,
A father's affection to fear.

And oh! if in some distant day,

Thine ear may be struck with my lyre, And nature's true index may say, << It may be it must be my sire!»>

Perchance to thy prejudiced eye
Obnoxious my form may appear,
Even nature be deaf to my sigh,
And duty refuse me a tear.

Yet sure in this isle, where my songs Have echo'd from mountain and dell, Some tongue the sad tale of my wrongs With grateful emotion may tell.

Some youth, who had valued my lay,
And warm'd o'er the tale as it ran,

To thee e'en may venture to say,

« His frailties were those of a man. »

They were; they were human, but swell'd and malice and scorn,

By envy

Each feeling of nature rebell'd,

And hated the mask it had worn.

Though human the fault-how severe,
How harsh the stern sentence pronounced;
Even pride dropp'd a niggardly tear,
My love as it grimly denounced.

'Tis past: the great struggle is o'er;
The war of my bosom subsides;
And passion's strong current no more
Impels its impetuous tides.

'Tis past: my affections give way,
The ties of my nature are broke,
The summons of pride I obey,
And break love's degenerate yoke.

I fly, like a bird of the air,

In search of a home and a rest;
A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unbless'd.

And swift as the swallow that floats,
And bold as the eagle that soars,

Yet dull as the owlet, whose notes
The dark fiend of midnight deplores!

Where gleam the gay splendours of East, The dance and the bountiful board; I'll bear me to luxury's feast,

To exile the form I adored.

In full-brimming goblets I'll quaff
The sweets of the Lethean spring,
And join in the bacchanal's laugh,
And trip in the fairy-forin'd ring.

Where pleasure invites will I roam,
To drown the dull memory of care,
An exile from hope and from home,
A fugitive chased by despair.

Farewell to thee, land of the brave! Farewell to thee, land of my birth! When tempests around thee shall rave, Still-still may they homage thy worth!

Wife, infant, and country, and friend,
Ye wizard my fancy no more;
I fly from your solace, and wend
weep on some kindlier shore.

To

The grim-visaged fiend of the storm
That raves in this agonized breast,
Still raises his pestilent form,

Till death calm the tumult to rest.

TO MY DAUGHTER,

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH.

HAIL to this teeming stage of strife!
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!

Lamb of the world's extended fold!

Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!

How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

'Tis nature's worship-felt-confess'd,
Far as the life which warms the breast:
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of man,

In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb-the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears,
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak

Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thy untuned ear,
And charm it with a father's prayer.

But little reck'st thou, oh my child!
Of travail on life's thorny wild;
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tottering footstep which inclose;
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads between
The little all we here can find,

And the dark mystic sphere behind!

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,
Of clouds which gather round thy morn,
Of acts to lure thy soul astray,

Of snares that intersect thy way,

Of secret foes, of friends untrue,

Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo—
Little thou reck'st of this sad store-

Would thou might'st never reck them more!

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep;
The tenant of a frail abode,

Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd;

Beguiled by follies every day,

Sorrow must wash the faults away,

And thou may'st wake, perchance, to prove The pang of unrequited love.

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