Torn hapless thus from all he loved,
The wretched wanderer left his home;
From isle to isle incessant roved;-
His only wish-to idly roam!
Oft had he braved the tempest's war,
Unaided in his slender bark;
Oft lonely steer'd by some faint star
That glimmer'd through the involving dark;
Oft, oft uncertain whither driven,
Or near some rock or breaker borne;
He'd quit his helm to guiding heaven;
And sigh his cheerless lot till morn!
Oft had the wild heath been his bed,
On some lone hill, or craggy steep;
While lightnings flash'd around his head,
And eagles scream'd his woes asleep.
Thus pass'd his wandering life away,
A wretch by woes and tempests toss'd,'
Till fortune in her changeful play
Wreck'd him on Kilda's fatal coast.
Ah! little thought he while he strove
Gainst whelming wave and rocky shore,
Yon light would guide him to his love,
For whom these ceaseless ills he bore!
'Why starts the youth?-approach-draw near, Behold the wreck of storm and wave!
'Tis all that's left-my harp so dear
I burn'd, that fair one's life to save!'
A glance from Mora's speaking eye
Half calm'd the fond youth's labouring breast: The tale goes round-the bleak winds sigh, And Col mistrustless sinks to rest.
Ah! how could cold distrust possess
A breast so generous, kind, and true!
A heart still melting to distress,
To love-false fair one! and to-you.
The morn arose with aspect drear,
The waves still dash with sullen roar. Col starts from rest-no Mora's near, The treacherous pair are far from shore! From Kilda's cliff that towers on high, He spies the white sail far at sea; And while the big tear fills each eye, Cries Have I burn'd my harp for thee.'
'O, most ungrateful of thy kind!
And most unjust to love and me!-
O woman! woman! light as wind,
I'll ne'er burn harp again for thee!'
DARK was the night, with shrill and piteous moan
Poor Lucy wander'd on the shore alone.
O'er the wild waves she cast her streaming eyes,
While the rude tempest mock'd her tears and sighs.
'For ever then farewell, my native land,
And the dear youth that won my willing hand.
Friends, parents, country, take my last adieu,
I weep for all-but, Henry, most for you!
Two weeks, two little weeks, with wings of down,
Scarce o'er our heads in envious haste had flown,
When to our cot the cruel press-gang stray,
And tear the husband of my heart away.
Scarce on these lips my truelove's kiss is cold,
And my fond arms still seem his neck to fold;
Scarce on these ears his parting accents die,
Faint as they sounded in the raging sky,
When the fierce sailors seized my hapless love,
And I in vain against their fury strove-
Savage they threw me on the seabeat rock,
Half kill'd, and swooning at the dreadful shock;
Far from my sight my only life they tore,
And left me widow'd on the wintry shore!
'This rising morn beheld me wholly bless'd, By fortune favour'd, and by friends caress'd. Though small that fortune, and those friends though few,
Still was I rich, for, Henry, thou wert true.
In boundless confidence our hearts ran o'er,
And as we longer loved, we loved the more.
Oft have we felt, in all their pride of state,
How poor the wealthy, and how low the great!
"Tis virtue only that the pillow smooths,
And Love alone or want or sorrow soothes.
The bloodstain'd tyrant's crown conceals a thorn,
And all the' unfeeling live and die forlorn.
But ah! what boots it that our bosoms move
In sweet accordance to connubial love?
That Heaven unites us to a kindred soul,
And grants a bliss beyond this world's control?
If, as we clasp its momentary charms,
The faithless vision flies our empty arms!
And in that face where rapture used to speak
Leaves nought but grief to stain the faded cheek.
Such was our joy, so sweet, so early flown,
Cropp'd like the rosebud ere 'tis fully blown.
O days of pleasure, unalloy'd with care,
How shall my soul your sad remembrance bear?
Oft did I watch his footsteps from the main,
Now never, never to return again!
Oft did I place for him his evening chair,
Trim the bright hearth, and spread our simple fare: Oft did I listen to his wondrous tale,
Fill'd with domestic joys that never fail ;
Bless'd the kind power that saved him from the sea,
And bore him back to welcome home and me.
How can I then that wretched home reseek,
Where every sight shall bid my heartstrings break?
How, Henry, how thy seat forsaken view,
And many a recent trace of love and you?
Weep for the happy days for ever gone,
And walk and meditate and live alone!
O, we were bless'd beyond the common lot,
And love shower'd roses on our strawbuilt cot;
E'en the rude rocks a smiling aspect wore,
And gentler billows seem'd to kiss the shore.
6 'Though late the winds beat hard upon our roof,
And kept each passing vessel far aloof
(Save the dread bark that cleaves e'en now the sea
And bears thee, Henry, far from love and me!)
Still thy light skiff our daily wants supplied,
And braved the storm, kind Providence its guide;
Increased with frequent spoil our little hoard,
While Love sat smiling at the festive board.
How changed, alas, the transitory scene!
Clouds interpose, and darkness spreads between;
And the bright sun that rose upon our joys,
In thunder sets, and every hope destroys.
Torn from these arms to regions far remote, Or doom'd on distant seas a corpse to float, Without thy presence, Henry, shall I live? The frowning heavens forbid me to survive.
Haste and partake,' they cry, 'thy truelove's doom,
And seek his image in a watery tomb.'
She spoke, and headlong from the searock's height
Plunged in the roaring tide to endless night.'
But as the surge closed o'er her sinking head,
Poor Lucy woke-and lo! she lay in bed-
Sol through white curtains shot a golden gleam,
And starting reason chased the frightful dream.
An invitation, v. 1. The approach to a villa described, v. 5. Its situation, v. 17. Its few apartments, v. 57; furnished with casts from the antique, &c. v. 63. The dining room, v. 83. The library, v. 89. A cold bath, v. 101. A winter walk, v. 151. A summer walk, v. 163. The invitation renewed, v. 197. Conclusion, v. 205.
WHEN, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind
Has class'd the insect tribes of humankind,
Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing,
Its subtle web-work, or its venom'd sting;
Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours,
Point the green lane that leads through fern and flowers;
The shelter'd gate that opens to my field,
And the white front through mingling elms reveal'd.
In vain, alas, a village friend invites To simple comforts and domestic rites,
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