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God of the winds! oh, hear his humble pray'r,
And while the Moon of harvest shines, thy blustering

whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you
Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo:
Press ye still the downy bed,
While feverish dreams surround your

head:
I will seek the woodland glade,
Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapp'd in Contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,

While on the gale

Shall softly sail
The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise
To thee the modest Harvest Moon!

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes,

Gently o'er my Edwy fly!
Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,
All along where the salt waves sigh.
I have cover'd him with rushes,

Water-flags, and branches dry.
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;

Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,
All along where the salt waves sigh.
Still he sleeps; he will not waken,

Fastly closed is his eye:
Paler is his cheek, and chiller
Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed
All along where the salt waves sigh.
Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?
Could'st thou think I would survive thee?
No, my love, thou bidd'st me die.

Thou bidd'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak
All along where the salt waves sigh.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, And our shroud the waters spread;

The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG

TO THE NIGHT.

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark

Of lonely mariner,

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song

A melancholy song!
Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm,

That marks thy mournful reign.
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard ;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,

A solitary man.
And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.
And I have haild the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.
But never could I tune

my

reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.
The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,

My woes are mixed with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
Aërial voices' answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man:

And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.
And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my

little home,
And all its placid joys.
Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.

SONNET.
Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,

Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;
But ah! my soul far. other scenes beguile,

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-

Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, While in my ears the howls of furies ring,

And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? Away with thoughts like these!—To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps

the Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, [wave,

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse

Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, And whisper sounds of comfort in mine.ear.

P

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT

MORNING IN SPRING.

Written at the age of Thirteen.
The morning sun's enchanting rays
Now call forth every songster's praise ;
Now the lark, with upward flight,
Gaily ushers in the light;
While wildly warbling from each tree,
The birds sing songs to Liberty.
But for me no songster sings,
For me no joyous lark up-springs;
For I, confined in gloomy school,
Must own the pedant's iron rule,
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers,
In durance vile must pass the hours;
There con the scholiast's dreary lines,
Where no bright ray of genius shines,
And close to rugged learning cling,
While laughs around the jocund Spring.
How gladly would my soul forego
All that arithmeticians know,
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,
Or all that industry can reach,
To taste each morn of all the joys
That with the laughing sun arise ;
And unconstrain'd to rove along
The bushy brakes and glens among;
And woo the muse's gentle power,
In unfrequented rural bower!
But ah! such heaven-approaching joys
Will never greet my longing eyes ;
Still will they cheat in vision fine,
Yet never but in fancy shine.

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