Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my evening song.
And I have hail'd the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.
But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore
I hail'd thy star-beam mild.
The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mix'd with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
Erial voices answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone
And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,
And pleasant are my dreams.
And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.
Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft
The Condor's hollow scream.
SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;
But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of furies ring
And melancholy wastes the vital fire?
Away with thoughts like these-To some lone
Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps
the wave,
Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.
Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady.
DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,
To give you a sketch-ay, a sketch of myself.
'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;
But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;
For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,
She wont be a cynical father confessor.
Come, come, 'twill not do! put that purling brow
down;
You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.
Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;
Religious-Deistic-now loyal and warm;
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;
and anon Heraclitus; [rattle;
Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,
To all points of the conpass I veer in a day.
I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild :
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;
Then as for politeness-oh! dear-I'm a brute!
I show no respect where I never can feel it;
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it;
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.
And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like steel.
It can love (can it not?)—it can hate, I am sure; And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds :
And though far from faultless, or even so-so,
I think it may pass as our worldly things go.
Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!
I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,
But in process of time I may get the wrong way.
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,
And yet can't withstand, you know whose fasci-
nation.
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;
So as for the good, why, if I possess it,
I am not yet learned enough to express it.
You yourself must examine the lovelier side,
And after your every art you have tried,
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,
Hypocrisy never will come in your way.
I am upright, I hope; I am downright, I'm clear! And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere ; And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,
COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.
But I recline
Beneath thy shrine,
And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress
Though Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
Yet meditation, in her cell,
Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;
And though the tear
By chance appear,
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid
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