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Smooth glides with thee my pensive hour,

Thou warm'st to life my languid mind;

Thou cheer'st a frame with genial pow'r,
That droops in ev'ry ruder wind.

Breathe, cherub! breathe! Once soft and warm, Like thine, the gale of fortune blew ;

How has the desolating storm

Swept all I gaz'd on from my view!

Unseen, unknown, I wait my doom,
The haunts of men indignant flee,
Hold to my heart a listless gloom,
And joy but in the muse and thee.

Monthly Review.

THE DREAM.

STAY, gentle spirit of the night,
Oh! fly not thus-in pity stay!
I sicken at returning light;

Prolong my dream, forbid the day.

Sleeping, I thought my Myra fair
Hung fondly on my arm reclin'd,
Nor felt awhile my heart aware,

The maid had ever been unkind.

Still seems her form my sight to bless,
To smile and linger on my view-
Still seems her gentle hand to press;
Still speak her eyes of liquid blue.

Still vibrate on my list'ning ears,

The murmurs that confess'd her kind; Still in mine eyes the trembling tears, Wak'd by her tenderness, I find.

The sighs that from her bosom stole,

Even

now my

ravish'd senses fire;

My pulses throb, and all my soul

Aches with regret, and fond desire.

Hear, spirit kind! thy suppliant hear,
Again my longing eyes I close ;
Oh! prompt again the vision dear,
And let me ever thus repose.

Ah! know, that to thy shadowy aid,
Thy mimic pow'r, my breast must owe
The only joy the cruel maid

Will ever on my love bestow.

Critical Review.

MY NATIVE HOME.

O'ER breezy hill, or woodland glade,
At morning dawn, or closing day,
In summer's flaunting pomp array'd,

Or pensive moonlight's silver grey,
The wretch in sadness still shall roam,
Who wanders from his native home.

While at the foot of some old tree,
As meditation sooths his mind,
Lull'd by the hum of wand'ring bee,
Or rippling stream, or whisp'ring wind,
His vagrant fancy still shall roam,
And lead him to his native home.

Tho' love a fragrant couch may weave,
And fortune heap the festive board,
Still mem❜ry oft would turn to grieve,

And reason scorn the splendid hoard ;
While he beneath the proudest dome,
Wou'd languish for his native home.

To him the rushy roof is dear,

And sweetly calm the darkest glen; While pomp, and power, and pride appear, At best, the glitt'ring plagues of men; Unsought by those that never roam, Forgetful of their native home.

Let me to summer shades retire
With meditation, and the muse;
Or round the social winter fire,

The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse:
Tho' winds may howl, and waters foam,
I still shall bless my native home.

And oh! when youth's extatic hour,
And passion's glowing noon are past;
Should age behold the tempest low'r,
And sorrow blow its keenest blast;
My shade no longer doom'd to roam,
Shall find the grave a peaceful home.

Nottingham Journal.

STANZAS.

FAREWELL, dear Glenowen! adieu to thy mountains,

Where oft I have wander'd to welcome the day; Farewell to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains, Which stray thro' the valley, and moan as they stray: O'er wide foamy waters I'm destin'd to travel," A poor, simple exile, forlorn and unknown; Yet while the dark fates shall my fortune unravel, My thoughts, my affections, shall still be thy own.

Thy cities, proud Gallia, thy wide spreading treasures,
Thy vallies, where nature luxuriantly roves,

May bid the heart, dancing to fancy's wild measures,
Forget, for a moment, its own native groves:
But where is the bosom that sighs not in sorrow,
Estrang'd from dear objects, to wander alone;
Still counting the moments, from morrow to morrow,
A poor weary traveller, lost and unknown?

Sweet vistas of myrtle, and paths of gay roses,

And hills deck'd with vineyards, and woodlands with

shade,

Fresh banks of young vi'lets where fancy reposes,

d;

And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid The dark silent grotto, the soft-flowing fountains, Where nature's own music slow murmurs along; The sun-beams that dance on the pine-cover'd mountains, May waken to rapture their own native throng.

But thou, dear Glenowen! can'st bring sweeter pleasure,
All barren and bleak as thy summits appear;
And though thou can'st boast of no rich gaudy treasure,
Still memory traces thy charms with a tear!

The keen blast may howl o'er thy vallies and mountains,
And strip the rich verdure that mantles each tree;
And winter may bind in close fetters, the fountains,
But still thou art dear, O Glenowen! to me.

Walsingham,

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