. -λιβαν,τω εικάσεν, ότι απολλυμένον ευφραινεί. ARISTOT. Rhetor. lib. iii. cap 4. THERE'S not a look, a word of thine, My soul hath e'er forgot; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine, There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a ling'ring spell, Ah that I could, at once, forget "THE daylight is gone-but, before we depart, I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear.” 'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Trec, With a few, who could feel and remember like me, The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you. Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and newDo you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there! Last night when we came from the Calabash-Tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh, such a vision as haunted me then I would slumber for ages to witness again. The many I like and the few I adore, The friends who were dear and beloved before, At the call of my fancy, surrounded me here; Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? Or shines there a vista in nature or art, Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart? Alas, that a vision so happy should fade! That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the stream And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream. But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, THE STEERSMAN'S SONG, WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 28TH APRIL. WHEN freshly blows the northern gale, Or when light breezes swell the sail, Port, my boy! port. When calms delay, or breezes blow i I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails and sighing say, Thus, my boy! thus. But see the wind draws kindly aft, Our stately ship through waves and air. Oh! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to theeAnd in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy so. TO THE FIRE-FLY. Ar morning, when the earth and sky Nor think upon thy gleaming wing. But when the skies have lost their hue, Thus let me hope, when lost to me IF former times had never left a trace |