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THE EXILE.

FAREWELL, oh native Spain! farewell for ever! These banish'd eyes shall view thy coast no more; A mournful presage tells my heart that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.

Hush'd are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing
With gentle motion, plows th' unruffled main,
I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,

And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven ́
Still do the spires, so well belov❜d, appear.
From yonder craggy point the gale of even
Still wafts my native accents to my ear.

Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily singing,
There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustom'd hour,
When twilight gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his lov'd paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome, and with smile sincere; No threat'ning woes of present joys bereave him, No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying,
Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who from home and Spain an exile flying,
Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty, Sung by some mountain-girl who tends her goats, Some village-swain imploring am'rous pity,

Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

No more my arms a parent's fond embraces,
No more my heart domestic calm must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which mem'ry traces,
To sultry skies and distant climes I go.

Where Indian suns engender new diseases,
Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way,
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madd'ning blaze of day.

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever, With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever,

And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells in slumber
Recall my native country to my mind,
How oft regret will bid me sadly uumber

Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia's vales and lov'd romantic bowers,
The river on whose banks a child I play'd,
My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade.

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes which I am doom'd no more to know,
Full oft shall mem'ry trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But lo! the sun beneath the waves retires;
Night speeds apace her empire to restore!
Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's motion!
Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main !
So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,
Once more mine eyes

shall see the court of Spain.

Vain is the wish! my last petition scorning,
Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell;
Far shall we be before the break of morning:
Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell.

M. G. Lewis. Esq.

SONNET TO THE BLACKBIRD.

SWEET minstrel of the vocal grove,
Oh thou! whose song I love to hear,
In carol sweet, the note of love
Still swelling on my raptur'd ear.

At early dawn, at parting day,
I'll listen to thy am'rous tale,

(Thy song

shall well my walk repay), And give my sorrows to the gale.

Exulting beats my throbbing heart,

My breast with quicker transport glows,

The gloomy scenes of life depart,
And sooth my soul to sweet repose.

O may thy mate, sweet bird! return
Thy fondness with a lover's care,
Her breast with equal fondness burn,

The joys of life with thee to share.

Her warmth the infant brood shall form,

Thy song shall sooth her patient breast, Whilst shelter'd from the sudden storm They linger in the clay-built nest.

Till time, with soft maternal aid,
Their full-fledg'd pinions shall display,
In all their glossy plumes array'd,
Impatient of the long delay.

And when allur'd to distant skies,
Thy fondness chirps a long adieu,
Fond bird! with them thy pleasure flies,
But with them fly-thy sorrows too..

C. S.

VERSES

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew,
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;

Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

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