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 And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven ́ Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily singing, Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustom'd hour, 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, 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, Where Indian suns engender new diseases, But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, 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 Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind! Wild Murcia's vales and lov'd romantic bowers, Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, But lo! the sun beneath the waves retires; Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's motion! shall see the court of Spain. Vain is the wish! my last petition scorning, M. G. Lewis. Esq. SONNET TO THE BLACKBIRD. SWEET minstrel of the vocal grove, At early dawn, at parting day, (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, O may thy mate, sweet bird! return 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, And when allur'd to distant skies, C. S. VERSES TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. |