There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet South wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has played,
Whatever isles of ocean fanned,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their Sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould:

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endeared, undoubting, undeceived:

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed.

O gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours

In Nature's more propitious home,

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than Cherub loves,
And let the name be Caroline.

CAROLINE.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-coloured Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows,
So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose:

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seemest to be, Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

Oh! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear,

And early rise, and long delay,
When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown,

And wanton flowers, that well may court

An angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome,
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guidest the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my chariner's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhailing dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnowed by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow
And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus at day's decline,

In converse sweet, to wander far,
Oh, bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

STANZAS

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

HEARTS of oak that have bravely delivered the brave,
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
'Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine:
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave,
The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil?

No! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil

The uprooter of Greece's domain !

When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil
Till her famished sank pale as the slain !

Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed

The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed!
Are they men?-let ineffable scorn be their meed,
And oblivion shadow their graves!—

Are they women?-to Turkish serails let them speed;
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore?
That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more
By the hand of Infanticide grasped ?

And that stretched on yon billows distained by their gore
Missolonghi's assassins have gasped?

Prouder scene never hallowed war's pomp to the mind,
Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social the wind,
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,
Their watchword, humanity's vow;

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honour his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall,
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul;
For whose was the genius, that planned at its call,
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?

All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek!
Dimmed the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek:
In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak
When their lore and their lutes they reclaim:
And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak
Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name !”

THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND.

CAN restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head?

Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead. There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb,

And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom,
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth :
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,
Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner's glance.
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle.

The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,

And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire;
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray,

And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far

away

And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light,
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,
High bounding from billow to billow; each form
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;
With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand,
Fast they ploughed by the lee-shore of Heligoland,
Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er crossed;
Now surf-sunk for minutes, again they uptossed,
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood

To the challenging watchman, that curdled his blood-
"We are dead-we are bound from our graves in the west,
First to Hecla, and then to-" Unmeet was the rest
For man's ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang,
And their eyes gleamed with phosphorous light as it rang:
Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim,
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and limb.