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Oh ! could the lover learn from thee,
And breathe them with thy graceful tone,
Would make the coldest nymph his own.
Θυμος δε ποτ' εμος ..
• με προσφωνει ταδε:
The storms of the morning pursued us no more,
Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er !
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead,
As the billow the force of the gale that was fled !
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
Was pity for those who were wiser than I !
In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
The pearl of the soul may be melted away!
That pleasure no more might its purity dim,
I might give back the gem I had borrowed from him!
Had already the wreath of eternity shown ;
My heart had begun to be purely its own!
From Captain Cockburn, who commanded be iinpertinent to state, that the object of this the Phaeton, 'I received such kind attentions as voyage across the Atlantic was my appointment I must ever remember with gratitude. As some to the office of Registrar of the Vice-Admiralty of the journalists have gravely asserted that i Court of Bermuda. went to America to speculate in lands, it may not
I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky
Which morning bad clouded, was clouded no more : “Oh! thus,' I exclaimed, 'can a heavenly eye
Shed light on the soul that was darkened before !
THE TELL-TALE LYRE.
A Lyre of most melodious spell ;
If half be true that legends tell.
And to their breath it breathed again
As ear had never drunk till then !
Not harmony's serenest touch
So stilly could the notes prolong,
As they were dreams of heavenly song!
Along the chords in languor stole,
Were eloquence from pity's soul !
Was but the breath of fancied woes,
Soon whispered it to kind repose !
If 'mid their bliss the Lyre was near,
And echoed notes that Heaven miglit hear !
But dared not tell the world how well;
Alone could know, alone could tell.
'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole
So oft, to make the dear one blest,
And nature soon gave all the rest !
It chanced that in the fairy bower
Where they had found their sweetest shed, This Lyre, of strange and magic power,
Hung gently whispering o'er their head.
And while, with eyes of mingling fire,
They listened to each other's vow, The youth full oft would make the Lyre
A pillow for his angel's brow ! And while the melting words she breathed
On all its echoes wantonell round, Her hair, amid the strings enwreathed,
Through golden mazes charmed the sound ! Alas ! their hearts but little thought,
While thus entranced they listening lay, That every sound the Lyre was taught
Shoula linger long, and long betray! So mingled with its tuneful soul
Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole,
Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tone. Unhappy nymphı ! thy name was sung
To every passing lip that sighed : The secrets of thy gentle tongue
On every ear in murmurs died ! The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand
Hung high amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fanned
Betrayed the mystery of your loves ! Yet, oh! not many a suffering hour,
Thy cup of shame on earth was given : Benignly came some pitying power,
And took the Lyre and thee to heaven! There, as thy lover dries the tear
Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lov'st to hear
The luckless Lyre's remembered songs ! Still do your happy souls attune
The notes it learned, on earth, to move ; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune
In sympathies of angel love!
TO THE FLYING-FISH.1
WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
i It is the opinion of St. Austin, upon Genesis, them: ovyyevelAV TOLS TETOWEVOLs tpos ta vnuta. and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, With this thought in our minds when we first like fish, were originally produced from the see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy waters; in defence of which idea they have col- that we are present at the moment of crealected every fanciful circumstance which can tion, and witness the birth of the first bird from tend to prove a kindred similitude between the waves.
And give those scales, of silver white,
But when I see that wing, so bright,
Oh virtue! when thy clime I seek,
TO MISS MOORE.
FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER 1803.
In days, my Kate, when life was new,
How long the little absence seemed !
The drops that War had sprinkled there !