While far at sea their solitary skiff,

The faithful matrons climb the shelving cliff;
With tears of love and anguish heaven implore, 245
To guide the labouring bark to Kilda's shore.
Each marks her shroudless husband, pale, aghast,
Rise from the deep, and ride the driving blast.

250

The storm is hush'd: the prospering breezes play; They mark the whitening canvas far away: With faithful hearts (the only wealth they boast), They hail the storm-tost nation to the coast. Up springs the jovial dance, the festive lay, And night repays the labours of the day.

The simple maid, whose thoughts, devoid of guile, 255 Ne'er pass'd the limits of the sea-girt isle,

In every trouble finds a sure relief,

For mild Religion sooths her rising grief.

Does cold Disease slow waste her fading bloom? Hope cheers her soul, and points beyond the tomb.* 260 When lightnings flash, on vengeful pinions driven, She chaunts her ev'ning prayer-and trusts in Heaven.

But me-nor Heaven, nor smiling Hope can cheer; Wrapt in dark mists my future paths appear;

"When the solan geese are asleep, they put their head under "their wings; but one of them keeps watch, and if that be surprised by the fowler (which often happens), all the rest are then easily caught by the neck, one after another; but if the centi"nel gives warning by crying loud, then all the flock make their "escape." Martin, p. 282.

A more entertaining and animated account of this mode of fowling is to be met with in Pontoppidon's Natural History of Norway.

* And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb,
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore
Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.—

Mrs. Smith

Bright to my view the scenes of childhood rise. 265
But gnawing Conscience blasts their brilliant dyes.
Though rob'd in bliss these halcyon pleasures spring,
Each pleasure bears a curse, each joy a sting.
One boon from Heav'n MATILDA still may crave,
One melancholy boon-an early grave.

270

275

I hop'd, when Passion lent young Fancy scope, (For Love will trust the syren voice of Hope), I fondly dream'd our path through pleasure lay, And EDWARD seem'd to guide my flow'ry way. O'er his lov'd form in speechless trance I hung, And drank the raptur'd accents of his tongue. "O for some happy spot, some shelt'ring shade, "Some solitary grove," we fondly said, "Some blissful isle, in whose enchanted bow'rs, "With woodbine wrought, and Summer's blooming

flow'rs,

280

"Love, fir'd by Liberty, might spurn controul, "Dart thro' the frame, and rule th' o'erflooded

soul!

"There no unpitying father should intrude,

"To check the trance of Love with footstep rude;
"No child condemn'd, a cold reluctant wife,
"To sink a wedded prostitute for life;

"Gay Hope should dwell in ev'ry passing breeze,
"And ev'ry whisp'ring riv'let lull to peace."
Dear, lost delusions! Truth's too fervent ray

285

Strikes the bright frostwork-and it melts away: 290
In Kilda's Isle I trace the fancied shore,
But you and Innocence are mine no more.
Oft when at night in weary trance I lie,
And sleep hangs heavy on my wakeful eye,
Strange visions glance athwart the deepening gloom,295
My bleeding EDWARD leaves the silent tomb.

Shivering, the grisly phantom glides along,
And midnight spectres howl the funeral song:
Cold is the tongue that stole my list'ning soul,
And bade the hast'ning suns too swiftly roll;
Fix'd is the eye that passion taught to move,
With all the silent eloquence of love;

300

Pale is the cheek where bloom'd the living rose,
From his gor'd breast the purple torrent flows:
Tyrant! thou might'st have spar'd his guiltless head,
'Twas I profan'd the violated bed:

-Yet would I rather press these lips so cold,
Kiss his pale cheek-his bloody corse enfold,
Clasp the cold heart, in happier days I press'd,
That throbb'd responsive to my heaving breaft,
Than proudly tread in Pleasure's flow'ry maze,
While humbler beauties envy as they gaze.

-Fell tyrant! but when all in silence lies,
Stern Conscience bids her tort'ring fiends arise,

306

310

See on his thorny couch the murd'rer thrown- 315 He starts and hark! that agonizing groan

In broken dreams his troubl'd spirits reel :

He grimly grasps the visionary steel.

-The restless casement flaps-bleak howls the blast

His troubled slumbers fly-he starts aghast-
Convulsive pangs his glaring eyeballs strain—
But all is hush'd--he turns to sleep again-
Again the blast returns with hollow sigh-
Again he starts-again his slumbers fly-
List'ning he hears a cautious whisper creep;

320

325

He leaves his harden'd couch-and flies from sleepShudd'ring he grasps his sword--he fears to breatheBut all is silent as the realms of death.

Hence, vain illusions! fly this burning brainThough Mirth must ne'er illume these eyes again, 330

Let dreams less dark my ranging soul employ,
And let me snatch a melancholy joy.

335

Whisper that EDWARD lives-Bring balmy rest;
Bring peace-fo long a stranger to my breast;
O could I clasp once more his angel form,
Without one sigh I'd meet th' o'erwhelming storm;
Hang on his neck-invoke th' avenging fire,
And in an extacy of love expire.

Lov'd youth! if still in this dim orb you dwell,
Accept your poor MATILDA's last farewell.
Receive- -for Death now shakes the fatal dart,
This last sad homage of a broken heart.
My dying breath shall own my earliest flame,
And my last sigh shall mix with EDWARD's name.

340

W. E.

"I LOVE the Poets," young Narcissa said:
Quoth I, "The Poets always lov'd the Misses:"
"Give me some verses then," rejoin'd the maid⚫
"I will (said I) :—give me as many kisses."

She smil'd consent-I kiss'd the lovely maid,
And, warm with bliss, repeat a glowing line;
She smil'd again, and I repeat the bliss,
And to my first I add a second line;

Then said-The bee from sweetest flow'rets sips,
And hence so sweet the honey of the bee;
And lines inhal'd from those nectareous lips,
Made of thy kisses, must be worthy thee.

G. DYER.

STANZAS.

BY MISS HOLFORD.

Tis noon, and the cool-breathing zephyr is fled,
And the dew-drop no longer besprinkles the thorn;
I fly from the sun-beam that scorches my head,
And sigh when I think on the beauties of morn.

For oh! vanish'd morn, as I feel thee depart,
I know that life's loveliest season is o'er;
Like thy shades each soft vision is quitting my heart,
And I know that these visions shall glad it no more!

Yet why should I mourn? On my opening mind
Thought early intruded her lessons severe;
E'en in childhood I ponder'd the precepts unkind,
And mingled the revels of youth with a tear!

Sport on then, ye triflers-enjoy the gay beam,
Nor remember the shadows of ev'ning must fall,
When its splendours shall perish, like yesterday's
dream,

And silence and night shall envelope ye all.

For me, as the pageant glides by, I can smile,
Since few are the pleasures Time pilfers from me,
And Hope of its terrors my breast shall beguile,
As I welcome the sentence that bids me be free!

CHESTER.