TO A LADY.

With Falkner's "Shipwreck."

АH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice;
Nor while half-list'ning, mid delicious dreams,
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood
On cliff, or cataract, in alpine dell;

Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!
Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark!

"Cling to the shrowds!" In vain! The breakers roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan, Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!

Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ?

The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name

Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou can'st not choose but shed A tear for FALKNER, wilt remember ME!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

On her Recovery from a Fever.

WHY need I say, Louisa dear!

How glad I am to see you here,

A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain, and fear,

And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing,

Will better welcome you than I,

With their sweet influencing.

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up and seemed to say,
How can we do without her?

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL.

Written in Germany.

IF I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep;

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.