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As they approach the shores hallowed by so many early associations and of which they have thought and dreamt for so many years, with what tumultuous eagerness they crowd into the first boat that reaches the vessel's side! At last they leap upon their native earth; and they who mix reflection with their transport, look back with grateful wonder at their escapes by land and sea, and rejoice in the consummation of their long cherished hopes.

No language could paint the feelings with which those Indian parents who have sent children home at an early age hurry from the sea-port town at which they land, to embrace again their living treasures ! The first excess of joy at such a meeting may border upon pain ; but when the deep and wild emotion begins to moderate, there is no earthly felicity with which it could be compared. It is almost a compensation for the pangs of parting, and the miseries of exile.

SONNET_WRITTEN IN INDIA.

The scene is sweetly changed! The lord of day
No longer wears the countenance of pride
That seared the green earth's breast! A veil doth hide
The lustre of his brow ; his parting ray,
As some fond lover's smile that melts away
Through farewell tears, is fading tenderly!
And gorgeous clouds, like banners floating free,
But dimmed by distance, soften into grey !
Now, like a shadowy form, whose beauty steals
O'er the rapt soul in visionary hours,
Meek Twilight comes ! From zephyr-haunted bowers
Arise the tuneful Shama's evening peals,
Blent with the far wave's murmur, and the songs
Of village maids, that Echo's voice prolongs.

LINES TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND

FLOWERS.

GREEN herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste,
Though grateful to the traveller's sight and taste,
Seem far less fair and fresh than fruits and flowers
That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.
Thy gracious gift, dear Lady, well recalls
Sweet scenes of home,--the white cot's trellised walls-
The clean red garden path-the rustic seat-
The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat
For hearts that love repose. Each spot displays
Some long-remembered charm. In sweet amaze
I feel as one who from a weary dream
Of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam
Illume the glorious clouds, of every hue,
That float o'er fields his happy childhood knew.

How small a spark may kindle fancy's flame,
And light up all the past! The very same
Glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old,
Arrest me now-I hear them and behold.
Ah! yonder is the happy circle seated
Within the favourite bower ! I am greeted
With joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard
A father's voice—their little hearts are stirred
With eager hope of some new toy or treat,
And on they rush with never-resting feet !

* * *

*

Gone is the sweet illusion-like a scene
Formed by the western vapours, when between
The dusky earth and day's departing light,
The curtain falls of India's sudden night.

MENTAL CHANGES.

As o'er the fairest skies
The dream-like shadows steal,
So dim mysterious cares surprize
The heart whose human weal
Would seem secure from aught less bright
Than pleasure's broad congenial light.

As when this outward world,
Attracts the mortal eye,
A vapour on the light air curled
Between us and the sky
May make its blue depths cold and dun,
And place in brief eclipse the sun ;

So in the realms of mind,
The meanest things have power,
With thoughts as wayward as the wind
When fitful tempests lour,
The loveliest hues of life to cloud,
And Hope's resplendent orb enshroud.

SONNETS_WRITTEN AT SEA.

[FINE WEATHER.] The plain of ocean 'neath the crystal air Its azure bound extends—the circle wide Is sharply clear,-contrasted hues divide The sky and water. Clouds, like hills that wear The winter's snow-wrought mantle, brightly fair, Rest on the main's blue marge. As shadows glide O’er dew-decked fields, the calm ship seems to slide O'er glassy paths that catch the noon-tide glare As if bestrown with diamonds. Quickly play The small crisp waves that musically break Their shining peaks.-And now, if aught can make Celestial spirits wing their downward way, Methinks they glitter in the proud sun's wake, And breathe a glorious beauty on the day!

[A CALM, AFTER A GALE.] LIKE mountain-mists that roll on sultry airs, Unheard and slow the huge waves heave around That lately roared in wrath. The storm-fiend, bound Within his unseen cave, no longer tears The vexed and wearied main. The moon appears, Uncurtaining wide her azure realms profound To cheer the sullen night. Though not a sound Reposing Nature breathes, my rapt soul hears The far-off murmur of my native streams Like music from the stars-the silver tone Is memory's lingering echo. Ocean's zone Infolds me from the past ;---this small bark seems The centre of a world--an island lone ; And home's dear forms are like departed dreams!

ON THE FREQUENT COMPLAINT OF A WANT OF

MEMORY.

Nothing is more common than the confession of a defect of memory, which may be taken as a proof that it is not generally considered one of the nobler faculties of the mind. Men rarely acknowledge, even to themselves, a deficiency in any quality which ranks highly in their own estimation, or which they suppose to be essential to the dignity or grace of their intellectual character. People sometimes complain of the want of extrinsic advantages, such as a large income or a handsome equipage, because these things form no portion of their own moral or mental being. They conceive that they have higher and less equivocal claims to the respect of their fellow creatures; and while railing at Fortune, enjoy a secret consciousness, and sometimes even venture on a pretty open implication, that their merit is deserving of a better fate. Men are discontented with every thing but their own minds and persons. They never complain that nature has made them silly or ill-featured. In some respects what a happy circumstance is that law of our nature by which, with the clearest eyes for the defects of others, we are blinded to our own! The feeble-minded and the deformed in body would shrink into themselves with bitter shame and forlorn despondency, if they were to see their own deficiencies as they appear to others. The perpetual mirror of self-reflection would drive them to despair. It is remarkable that in proportion as nature is niggard in real gifts, she is liberal in those of fancy. Fools and dwarfs are proverbially vain. When we consider how much of the happiness of life depends upon our being well deceived, it is perhaps scarcely

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