The seaman tost by waves and winds,

Far from his friends and native home,

From toil a grateful respite finds

When thou to his relief dost come.

Extatic visions of delight

Before his restless fancy rise;

The village seems to bliss his sight

Where light first beam'd upon his eyes.

The soldier on the field of blood,

Exhausted by fatigue and toil,

Feels all the springs of life renew'd
Beneath thy renovating smile.

While haply some delightful dream

Transports him to the well-known plain

The lowly cot beside the stream,

Where first he open'd life's campaign.

Beneath thy mild auspicious reign,

The love-lorn damsel lies at rest-
A dream restores her long-lost swain—
O'erjoy'd she clasps him...and is blest.

"And are we met?....shall I no more A bitter separation dread ?"

She cries....but soon the joy is o'er

She wakes....the dear illusion's fled.

And often I, thy humble bard,

Have felt thy influence benign,

And all the calm delights have shar'd,

Which to bestow is only thine.

F

In early youth, when first my heart

Was kindled with poetic flame,

Sweet dreams of night would oft impart The hope of never-dying fame.

Or, when with love my bosom glow'd, Thy blissful dreams have to my arms The much-priz'd fair one oft bestow'd, In all her fascinating charms.

My darling child, whose artless tongue Could prattle all my cares away,

Was seiz'd by death...how sad I hung Lamenting o'er his lifeless clay!

What keen affliction wrung my soul! How did my eyes with tears o'erflow! Yet, even then, thou couldst console

Thou didst beguile me from

my woe.

And oft, when laid by thee at rest,

My wand'ring spirit soars on high,

And in the reigons of the blest

Holds converse with my lovely boy.

The friend my heart first learnt to prize, Who braves the stormy ocean's roar,

When thou hast clos'd my weary eyes, A dream of rapture can restore.

Then, on the scenes of mirth we dwell,
Which gilded life's unclouded morn;

And oft, with painful pleasure tell,
Of joys that never will return.

Soul-soothing sleep! thou dearest friend

To man, the son of care, and strife;

The charm is only thine, to blend

With sweets, the bitter cup of life.

When dimly burns my vital flame,

Thy gentle form may death assume,

And lay this time-worn, shatter'd frame,
At rest, in earth's capacious womb.

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE EVENING OF THE 31ST DECEMBER,

1807.

"We take no note of time

"But from its loss. To give it then a tongue,

"Is wise in man."

HARK! how the fear-inspiring storm.

Howls thro' the leafless wood;

And heaves, in many a dreadful form,

The wild infuriate flood,

YOUNG.

The deaf'ning squall....the roaring surge,

At once assail the ear;

They seem to sing a doleful dirge

To the departing year.