And now, though flying o'er my nead
Are youth's departing years,
And often though the path I tread

Is watered by my tears;—

Still Hope, in many a gloomy hour,
Through many a weary mile,
Has cheered me with the magic power
Of her bewitching smile.

But Hope, farewell!-thy visions bright
Have dazzled me too long;
And shall I stay to watch thy flight,
And hear thy parting song?

No: let me turn-it is enough-
Too many tears have flowed:
The sky is dark, the way is rough ;—
But 't is the pilgrim's road:

And pilgrim-like, with staff and shell,

And clothed in habit gray,

I bid the smiling past farewell,
And speed me on my way.

But wherefore should my courage fail,
And strains of sorrow flow?
Why need I through this gloomy vale
A lonely wanderer go?

I see a little cheerful band;

I hear their songs resound;

Onward they travel, hand in hand;
And all for Zion bound..

The sterile plain, the desert drear,
Where howls the chilling blast→→
The pains and perils that I fear—-
Already they have past.

And kindly would they welcome me:
They bid me not despond ;
For they a fairer land can see,

And brighter skies beyond.—

O then, though fainting and distressed
I will my way pursue:

There is a home, there is a rest,

There is a heaven in view.

September 23, 1809.

TO A BROTHER,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

DEAR brother, while weaving your birth-day address,
I cannot but wish you were here;

For what the true feeling of love can express,
So well as a smile and a tear?

The tear, should it fall on the track of my pen,
May wash its effusions away:

The smile give me credit till Christmas, for then
I know I can promise to pay.

And why should I try in a song to enclose
What never in language was dressed?

Away with the Muse, when the heart overflows,
For silence expresses it best.

A sister's affection, the hope and the fear
That flutter by turns in her heart,

When a brother sets out on his stormy career,
What magic of words can impart?

Then why any more of such rhyming as this,
At which all the critics might laugh?

Ah why, when a smile, and a tear, and a kiss,
Would tell it you better by half?
October 9, 1809.

TO MISS E. F.

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

HAIL, dearest Eliza! and hail to the morn
That smiled on your infantile charms :
Ah! were I not fettered at distance forlorn,
I would tell all my joy in your arms..

If, true to affection, some child of the grove
Would lend me her pinion awhile,

How gladly I'd fly, with the swiftness of love, Exchanging my song for a smile!

Though if any mortal those heavenly things With beings angelic might share,

Eliza had surely been furnished with wings, To bear her light form on the air.

But seeing the Fates, to our friendship averse,. Such intercourse ever delay,

Permit me, my love, in affectionate verse,

To greet the return of the day..

And since I no train of kind genii can boast,
On errands of friendship to soar,

I send a rude sprite, in the form of the post,
To knock with my song at your door,

Accept then, my love, from my heart as they flow, Of wishes the kindest and best;

For thousand sweet pleasures I fain would bestow, To find an abode in your breast.

Yet what are the blessings that never have graced,
Eliza, thy favored abode?

Not virtue, or beauty, refinement, or taste,
No: these are already bestowed.

But sorrow too often that bosom invites
Which soonest and longest will bleed;
And sickness, the epicure, chiefly delights
On lilies and roses to feed.

Yet still she can smile and rejoice on her way!
Though sorrow and suffering begin;

They cause the fair casket to fade and decay,
But brighten the jewel within.

Till, freed from a dwelling of darkness and wo,

This gem from its prison shall rise,

All brilliant with glory for ever to glow,

A sun in unchangeable skies.

Then, might my dim star with a tremulous ray
Ascend to that heavenly sphere,

That friendship shall flourish which lightens the way
Of my wearisome pilgrimage here.

January 15, 1808.

My harp, though out of tune so long,

May yield a simple strain:

I will not aim at lofty song,

Well knowing that were vain.

And will you not the tribute own:
The simple numbers hear?
May not affection's gentle tone

Be soothing to your ear?

And may I hope the unpolished thought
Your goodness will excuse?
Though surely ne'er for favor sought
A less aspiring Muse.

Not born Parnassus' heights to hail,

She shuns the lofty place;
And only owns a lowly vale,
Embosomed at its base.

She never soared on Fancy's wing,
Nor learned poetic art;

Nor knew she e'er to touch a string,
But those that twine the heart.

Will you the humble traveller scorn,
And mock her low estate?

Behold! all trembling and forlorn,
She lingers at your gate