TO MARY.

How swift, my lovely Mary, go
The minutes wing'd with pleasure,
But ah the leaden hours how slow
That by our griefs we measure!

Short is the night, when, as we lie,
Fair visions charm us sleeping;
That night is an eternity,

In anguish pass'd, or weeping;

The purple lights of Summer-morn
Yon healthful upland streaking,
Glad the light soul-but smile in scorn
On him whose heart is breaking:

And faintly shines the noon-tide ray

Το bedimm'd with sorrow;

eyes

While happy men enjoy to-day,

And in their hopes to-morrow.

Yet, swift or slow, the day or night,
In laughing past, or mourning,
Time speeds o'er all with equal flight,
On pinions ne'er returning :

Fraught with the sweets of youth he flies,
With dimples, smiles, and graces,

And makes his cruel revelries

In spoiling heavenly faces.

The lover's oath, the poet's verse,
Await on beauty smiling,
And thus eternal joys rehearse,

Some list'ning maid beguiling.

"Youth bids thy seasons gaily flow, "Each rising sorrow smothers;

"To Thee shall Time but smiles bestow, "His wrinkles leave to others."

Forbear to list the flattering lay

Of poets thus deceiving;
Believe not, Mary, what they say!
Thy bane is in believing.

Tho' piteous to o'ercloud that eye,
To nip thy beauties blooming,
Time never stoops to gallantry-
His pleasure is consuming.

And when upon the faded face
No line of youth revealing,
Spar'd by his cruel scythe we trace
No roses worth the stealing.

No longer then in dance or song
Shall be thy age's pleasure;
Past merits shall the feast prolong
That memory loves to treasure:

Whatever scenes thy thoughts approve ;
The hour to friendship giv❜n,
The tender charm of chasten'd love,
And converse held with heav'n;

These raptures shall for ever last,
The weight of years to lighten;
And Innocence that gilds the past

Shall all thy future brighten.

THE SAVAGE.

"Twas eve-the sun descending slow
To me and Nature bad adieu,
And other worlds began to glow,
And other men to wake anew.

Nor friend was nigh-and sick at heart,
And faint, I watch'd the glimmering west,
While fancy play'd the torturer's part,

Too finely strained to be represt.

Just in that wayward, moody fit,

To which our souls are sometimes wrought, Too sad and sorrowful for wit,

Too whimsical for serious thought.

And "Ah bright orb! on Albion's plains,
Since doom'd to grief and years of toil,

Quick let me break the patriot chains
That bind us to our native soil!

"With thee my soul demands to stray

(Nor home nor friends can check her force ;) To western realms she wings her way, The sad companion of thy course.

"Now, glittering in thy gladsome light,
Columbia's trackless forests glow;

New groves and rivers greet my sight
And golden empires lie below :

"Man's busy anxious race arise;

Thy beams the plumed tribes adore; Thy Godhead gilds Columbia's skies, Bows every head from shore to shore.

"Strangers! awhile with you to dwell

From Europe's blood-stain'd fields I roam : Neglect and sorrow mix'd the spell 'That drove me from my native home.

"For there, usurping Virtue's reign,

Stern forms and rules dominion hold;
Mistrust and doubt the soul enchain,

And Prudence sneers, correctly cold;