Oh, STRANGFORD! when we parted last, I little thought the times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart's employ: When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few, Our only use for knowledge then

To turn to rapture all we knew! Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together, We lean'd the book on pleasure's bowl, And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather! I little thought that all were fled, That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurl'd

That wafts me to the western world!

And yet 'twas time-in youthful days,
To cool the season's burning rays,
The heart may let its wanton wing
Repose awhile in pleasure's spring,
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will dry, the heart will freeze!

And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,
Oh! she awaked such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope
For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
That not Verona's child of song,

When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter hopes could bound along,
Or pant to be a wanderer more!*

Even now delusive hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep,
And lights them with consoling gleam,
And smiles them into tranquil sleep!
Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake,

And o'er its calm the vessel glides

* Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of

this poet:

Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari,
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt!

Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides! The only envious cloud that lowers,

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,* Where dimly, 'mid the dusk, he towers, And, scowling at this Heaven of light, Exults to see the infant storm

Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles
Invisible, at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the melting smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,
Oh! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids. †

Dear STRANGFORD! at this hour, perhaps,
Some faithful lover (not so blest

* Pico is a very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.

+ I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie may be credited.

As they who in their ladies' laps
May cradle every wish to rest)
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
Which Camoens' harp from rapture stole
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine!*
Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone,
Such dear, beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own!

But, hark!—the boatswain's pipings tell
'Tis time to bid my dream farewell :
Eight bells:-the middle watch is set;
Good night, my STRANGFORD!-ne'er forget
That far beyond the western sea †

Is one whose heart remembers thee!

These islands belong to the Portuguese.

From Captain Cockburn, who commanded the Phaeton, I received such kind attentions as I must ever remember with gratitude. As some of the journalists have gravely asserted that I went to America to speculate in lands, it may not be impertinent to state, that the object of this voyage across the Atlantic was my appointment to the office of Registrar of the Vice-Admiralty Court of Bermuda.

STANZAS.

Θυμος δε ποτ' εμος

.........

με προσφωνει ταδε·

Γινωσκε τ' ανθρωπεία μη σεβειν αγαν.

ESCHYL. Fragment.

A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest,

Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er!

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the

dead,

And the spirit becalm❜d but remember'd their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled !

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh ;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I!