And vestal queen of night, who with thy nymphs
The British forests roamed: while upward gazed
The druid, by the oracular stone of fate,

On the blue star-thronged heavens, and mysteries read
In that vast volume which the ebon hand
Of Night had open flung to his glad eye,
That ne'er to vulgar ear might be revealed.
Ah! now thy nightly beam finds nothing there
But loneliness and silence !

Blessed moon!

How sweet it were to hear thy ancient tales,
Hadst thou a voice, of scenes and ages past,
Of all which thou hast witnessed: sweeter still
To journey round our globe, and gaze with thee
Upon its thousand wonders !-To behold
Th' Elysian fields and forests of Ceylon
Lie like a dreaming beauty in thy light,
Where the dire monstrous serpent hissing gilds
With thy resplendency his hundred folds :
Or with thee follow the eternal sun

In the same heaven sweet-shining with thyself
Round the arctic summer pole, and overlook
The snow-clad mountain-tops, whose ridges gleam
With vivid gold, belting the deep-blue sky
With rainbow circles; and thence view below
The iceberg citadels, and castle towers,
And gothic fanes magnificently smote
By the wizard sunbeams into glittering piles
Of richest silver, with bright spire, and dome,

Niche, fretwork canopy, and battlement,
Blazing like fairy halls with radiant gems!

Would I might visit gliding on thy beam Libya, land of the slave,-her far-off shores, Her wondrous forests, cities, and her clime Of Bambouk, whose enchanted hills are gold, Whose miser rivers roll their sparkling waves Rich with that dear-loved ore, where ne'er may come The hated white-man! Would I might explore Those sacred woods, where from their sources spring The sea-broad floods of that vast world unknown, And watch thy light, as on the fountain marge, Blooming with lotus flowers, it sleeps serene By man's unhallowed footstep unapproached ; There view the spotted giraffe drink his fill, And troops of beauteous antelopes play round The mossy banks beneath the tamarind tree, The feathery palm, and rich banana's shade; Mark the wild gambols of the pangolin, The fleet gazelle, and mid the whispering reeds The river-horse, while sober elephants Feed on the fragrant flowers of the rota boughs; Hear the fond lullaby of murmuring dove Amid the incense trees to her unfledged brood, And Poula shepherds' song and rustic pipe Far off amid the boundless forest shades, With the jackalls' voice baying at thy bright orb, And drum and tuneful reed of negro maids

With youth and manhood mingled in the dance
Beneath their mango-groves.

Then would I mount

And with thee visit ocean's dread abyss,

And sit upon the rocks that tower amid

The Maelstroom's horrid gulph; while far around Full many a league the dreadful whirlpool swells With boiling, foaming, thundering, deafening rage, As if the elements all in strife had met !

There the shipwreck demon, clad in tempest clouds,
Dwells mid the dark and terrible mountain surge,
Waiting in the full plenitude of power

For his seafaring victims, with vast jaws
That would a navy in its battle pride
Devour as a poor morsel, and then howl
With maniac fury for fresh prey to gorge!
Away, away, then on thy darting beams
Would I spring upward, and with them alight
On the huge Himalayan steeps that soar
Above the highest mountains on the globe,
And view the morn her ruby portals ope,
As the young sun his burning chariot mounts
And scatters glory o'er the myriad isles

Of the eastern sea, and those vast hills and plains
Where Turan* stretches towards the frozen pole.-

Eastern name of Tartary,

But ah, it may not be! Farewell, sweet moon! All-seeing eye of night! I cannot be

Α
voyager
with thee round thy sister star !—
Yet soon the time will come when I shall soar
Far, far beyond thy sphere, and visit worlds
Strange and mysterious,-wonderful, sublime,
Which thy remotest beams have never reached;
And where thy pale and feeble light would die
Like fireflies in Aurora's Indian bowers,
When the rejoicing sun awakes and fills
The blue skies with refulgence !

DEAR FRANK,

LETTER CXIX.

L― Cottage.

I HAVE been absent from home for a longer period than is usual with me, at least for some years past, or you would have heard from me early in January. Having no literary engagement, about six months ago I set off once more for London, in the hope of obtaining either temporary or permanent employment among the publishers, and getting my Tragedy, which had succeeded so well at W, brought out this season at one of the Theatres in the metropolis.

Shortly after my arrival, I called on Mr. C—, M. P. residing in Hanover Square, who had kindly promised when in the country to put my play in its improved state into the hands of the new American Manager; when I found that he had left it behind him in D-sbire, but that it was expected shortly by water with other things, and he assured me that immediately on its arrival he would lay it before the committee of Drury-Lane. A few nights after this, I witnessed Miss Har

VOL. III.