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The grovelling thoughts of a world of care
Are hushed to sleep when I gaze on thee;
For beauteous phantoms around me glide,
And beckon with looks of love to me.

The sainted friend of my youth appears,
But not as when last she met my sight-

In that dread hour, when her earthly sun
Had set 'mid the darkness of death's cold night.

A halo of glory lights that brow,

Where decay had set its livid seal ;

And immortal smiles play around those lips,
From whose portal I heard the last sigh steal.

She calls her child-the child of her love!
She breathes o'er my form a spirit's kiss ;
And whispers" Thy destined task fulfil,

For there blooms a brighter world than this.”

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE GARDEN OF FLORENCE," "THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH," &c.

WHEN evening's shades o'erspread the sky,

And, from her starry throne on high,

Pale Cynthia, empress of the night,
Sheds far and near her silver light;
Then, Hamilton, sweet bard, I love,
Oh! be it mine with thee to rove

* Vide page 120.

A. L. H.

Through forest dim or green wood shade,
For solitude and silence made,
And hear and see those elfin sprites,
That revel through long summer nights;
Or that pale boy, with golden mind,
Who for dim shades and silence pined;
That boy, above all mortals blest,
He whom the fairy queen carest;
That boy who left his quiet home,

Amid the busy world to roam;
Or Indreana's fate bewail,-
Or listen to the mournful tale,
Which Simona, in accents mild,
Breath'd to the ear of her accusers wild.

Enchanting bard! thy magic power
Hath shorten'd many a weary hour;
Enraptur'd o'er thy page I've hung,
What time thy muse her wild harp strung.

THE BUTTERFLY'S LOT.

(From the French of La Martine.)

BORN with the first light breath of spring,

When fades the rose to die;

To seek on Zephyr's sportive wing,

The clear effulgent sky;

A. L. H.

Intoxicate with sweets to make

Thy couch 'mid opening blooms; Poised on some fragrant flower, to shake The light dust from thy plumes:

When fades the last pale rose of eve,
To bid adieu to light;

And satiate with bliss, to leave

These scenes for realms more bright :

As some pure spirit hither sent,
To whom, blest lot, 'tis given,
To taste each sweet to earth that's lent,
Then wing its flight to heaven.

III.

LYRIC, ELEGIAC, & AMATORY PIECES.

FRANCE. AN ODE.

Coleridge.

YE clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
Ye ocean-waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!

Ye woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing,
Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd;
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where like a man belov'd of God,

Through glooms, which never woodman trod,
How oft, pursuing fancies holy,

My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,
Inspir'd beyond the guess of folly,-

By each rude shape, and wild unconquerable sound!
O, ye loud waves! and O ye forests high!
And O ye clouds that far above me soar'd!
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing sky!
M 3

Yea every thing that is, and will be free,
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
With what deep worship I have still ador'd
The spirit of divinest Liberty.

When France, in wrath, her giant limbs uprear'd,

And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot, and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! With what a joy my lofty gratulation

Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band:

And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizzard's wand,
The monarchs marched in evil day,

And Britain joined the dire array;

Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
Had swoln the patriot emotion,

And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat

To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance;
And shame too long delay'd, and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim

I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame;
But blest the peans of deliver'd France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name,

"And what," I said, "though blasphemy's loud scream,
With that sweet music of deliverance strove ?
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream?
Ye storms! that round the dawning east assembled,
The sun was rising, though ye hid his light!”

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,

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