"Cling to the shrowds!" In vain! The breakers roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan, Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!

Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?

The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name

Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past,

Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou can'st not choose but shed

A tear for FALKNER, wilt remember ME!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

On her Recovery from a Fever.

WHY need I say, Louisa dear!

How glad I am to see you here,

A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain, and fear,

And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing,

Believe me, while in bed you lay,

Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter!

Each eye look'd up and seemed to say, How can we do without her?

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew,

They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL.

Written in Germany.

IF I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep;

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

Written in Germany.

"Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more:

There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!