On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel door,

Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its
spring,

Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him played:
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here
alone

I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth !
Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth!
Whose every word enlightened and endeared;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;

In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure
sleep,

When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind

With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined?

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain;

Awake but one, and, lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies.

*

*

*

Rogers.

A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside a hill ;

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And, Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Rogers.

THE SAILOR.

The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,

Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,

Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the

wave;

When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join, Still, still he sees the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled
soul.

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide.

But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures herd!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

-'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs on land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

Rogers.

G

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the

sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the

slain;

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the

way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.