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She only said, “My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick moted sunbeam lay

Athwart the chambers, and the day
Down-sloped was westering in his bower.

Then, said she, “I am very dreary,

He will not come,” she said;
She wept, “I am aweary, aweary,

Oh, God, that I were dead!"

THOMAS MOORE. 1780.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., FROM BERMUDA. « The daylight is gone; but, before we depart, One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear That I shed while I name him, how kind and how

dear!” 'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree, With a few who could feel and remember like me, The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw, Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you! Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower, And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and new!

Do 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
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play;
And oh! such a vision as haunted me then,
I could slumber for ages to witness again!
The many I like, and the few I adore,
The friends who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here !
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the bless'd little isle ;
Serenely thewave, as they look'd on it, flow'd,
And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd!
Not the vallyes Heræan (though water'd by rills
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,
Where the song of the shepherd, primæval and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature heaven!
Oh, magic of love! unembellish'd by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue ?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art, [heart?
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the
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
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;
While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the

stream,
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream!
But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away,

Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind!
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me!
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam
Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home!

LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOES, OR FALLS OF THE NOHAWL

RIVER.

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From rise of morn till set of sun,
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run,
And as I mark'd the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass;
And as I view'd the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untired and wild,
Through shades that frown'd and flowers that
Flying by every green recess

(smiled
That woo'd him to its calm caress,
Yet sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind!
Oh! I have thought, and, thinking, sigh'd,
How like to thee, thou restless tide!
May be the lot, the life of him,
Who roams along thy water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of wo.
And flowers of joy my path may go!

How many a humble, still retreat,
May rise to court my weary feet,
While, still pursuing, still unbless'd,
I wander on, nor dare to rest !
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the last current cease to run !
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine!
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As sost as now it hangs o'er thee!

A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG,
“Et remigem cantus hortatur."- Quintilian.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time:
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn;
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Utawasa tide! this treinbling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon :
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

EPISTLE TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE R-WD--N. Not many months have now been dream'd away Since yonder sun (beneath whose evening ray We rest our boat among these Indian Isles) Saw me, where mazy Trent serenely smiles Through many an oak, as sacred as the groves Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the soul of father or of chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf! There listening, lady! while thy lip hath sung My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I've hung On every mellow'd number! proud to feel

That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, · As o'er thy liallowing lip they sigh'd along, Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Oh! I have wonder'd, like the peasant boy Who sings at eve his Sabbath strains of joy, And when he hears the rude, luxuriant note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own! I dream'd not then that, ere the rolling year Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland water's hurl'd In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed! Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through massy woods, through islets flowering fair, Through shades of bloom, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banish'd from the garden of their God! Oh, lady! these are miracles, which man, Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy plan, Can scarcely dream of; which his eye must see, To know how beautiful this world can be!

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