WRITTEN ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND,* IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE, Late in the evening, September 1804. SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill! Oh! what doth that vessel of darkness bear? There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Yon shadowy Bark hath been to that wreck, To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, Νοστου προφασις γλυκερου. Pindar. Pyth. 4. WITH triumph this morning, O Boston! I hail This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who call this ghost-ship, I think, "the Flying Dutch man. " We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to Halifax, and I had been so spoiled by the very splendid hospitality with which my friends of the Phaeton and Boston had treated me that I was but ill-prepared to encounter the miseries of a Canadian ship. The weather, however, was pleasant, and the scenery along the river delightful. Our passage through the Gut of Canso, with a bright sky and a fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic. And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand Well-peace to the land! may the people, at length, Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight, Farewell to the few I have left with regret. Which has lengthened our nights and illumined our bowl, When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien, I told them each luminous trait that I knew, They have listened and sighed that the powerful stream But, Douglas! while thus I endear to my mind That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! When hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home, where my heart is enshrined; Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain! Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part !— But see the bent topsails are ready to swell— To the boat-I am with thee-Columbia, farewell! TO LADY H ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS. Tunbridge-Wells, August 1805. WHEN Grammont graced these happy springs, And Tunbridge saw, upon her pantiles, The merriest wight of all the kings That ever ruled these gay gallant isles; Like us, by day, they rode, they walked, The only different trait is this, That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying "yes," Because as yet she knew no better ! Each night they held a coterie, Where every fear to slumber charmed, Lovers were all they ought to be, And husbands not the least alarmed! They called up all their school-day pranks, And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth. As-"Why are husbands like the Mint?" That give a currency to beauty. "Why is a garden's wildered maze Like a young widow, fresh and fair?" Because it wants some hand to raise The weeds which "have no business there!" And thus they missed, and thus they hit, And now they struck, and now they parried, And some lay in of full-grown wit, While others of a pun miscarried. 'Twas one of those facetious nights From whence it can be fairly traced Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it graced The snowy hand that wears it now. All this I'll prove, and then-to you, To dedicate th' important chronicle. Long may your ancient inmates give Let no pedantic fools be there, For ever be those fops abolished, With heads as wooden as thy ware, And, Heaven knows! not half so polished. But still receive the mild, the gay, Of reading Grammont every day, ΤΟ NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses, The lip that's so scented by roses Old Chloe, whose withering kisses Young Sappho, for want of employments, But for you to be buried in books— Astronomy finds in your eye Better light than she studies above, And Music must borrow your sigh As the melody dearest to love. In Ethics-'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! show but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals. Your Arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you endeavour; But Eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me for ever. Thus you see what a brilliant alliance A course of more exquisite science And oh! if a fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts! SONG. SWEETEST love! I'll not forget thee, Yet, oh! yet again we'll meet, love, Still I feel my heart is breaking, Calm to peace thy lover's bosom— Farewell, Bessy! DID NOT. 'TWAS a new feeling-something more |