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The day-god sitting on his western throne
With all his gorgeous company of clouds'-
The gentle moon that meekly disenshrouds
Her beauty when the solar glare is gone-
The myriad eyes of night—the pleasant tone
Of truant rills when o'er the pebbled ground
Their silver voices tremble—the calm sound
Of rustling leaves in noon-tide forests lone-
The cheerful song of birds—the hum of bees-
The zephyrs' dance that like the footing fine
Of moonlight fays scarce prints the glassy seas,-
Are all enchantments ! But Oh, what are these
When music, poetry, and love combine
In Woman's voice and lineaments divine !


HIS FATHER's songs.
How dream-like is the sound of native song
Heard on a foreign shore! The wanderer's ear
Drinks wild enchantment, --swiftly fade the drear
And cold realities that round him throng,
While in the sweet delirium, deep and strong,
The past is present and the distant near !
Such sound is sacred ever,-doubly dear
When heard by patriot exiles parted long
From all that love hath hallowed.

But a spell
Ev'n yet more holy breathes in every note
Now trembling on my heart. A proud Son sings
The lay of Burns! Oh! what imaginings
Awake, as o'er a foreign region float

These filial echoes of the father's shell !
Calcutta, August 7, 1833.





O’er the vast realm of tempest-troubled Ocean

O'er the parched lands that vainly thirst for showersThrough the long night-or when nor sound nor motion

Stirs in the noon of day the sultry bowers-
Not all un companied by pleasant dreams

My weary spirit panteth on the way;
Still on mine inward sight the subtle gleams

That mock the fleshly vision brightly play.
Oh! the heart's links nor time nor change may sever,

Nor Fate's destructive hand, if life remain; O'er hill, and vale, and plain, and sea, and river,

The wanderer draws the inseparable chain !


Fair children ! still, like phantoms of delight,

Ye haunt my soul on this strange distant shore, As the same stars shine through the tropic night

That charmed me at my own sweet cottage door. Though I have left ye long, I love not less ;

Though ye are far away, I watch ye still ; Though I can ne'er embrace ye, I may bless,

And e'en though absent, guard ye from each ill !
Still the full interchange of soul is ours,

A silent converse o'er the waters wide,
And Fancy's spell can speed the lingering hours,

And fill the space that yearning hearts divide.


And not alone the written symbols show

Your spirits' sacred stores of love and truth, Art's glorious magic bids the canvass glow

With all your grace and loveliness and youth ; The fairy forms that in my native land

Oft filled my fond heart with a parent's pride,
Are gathered near me on this foreign strand,

And smilingly, in these strange halls, reside ;
And almost I forget an exile's doom,
For while


around me gleam, Each scene and object breathes an air of home,

And time and distance vanish like a dream !


Oh! when sweet Memory's radiant calm comes o'er

The weary soul, as moonlight glimmerings fall O’er the hushed ocean, forms beloved of yore

And joys long fed, her whispers soft recall; At such an hour I live and smile again,

As light of heart as in that golden time When, as a child, I trod the vernal plain,

Nor knew the shadow of a care or crime.
Nor dream of death, nor weariness of life,

Nor freezing apathy, nor fierce desire,
Then chilled a thought with unborn rapture rife,

Or seared my breast with wild ambition's fire,


From many a fruit and flower the hand of Time

Hath brushed the bloom and beauty ; yet mine eye, Though Life's sweet summer waneth, and my prime

Of health and hope is past, can oft espy Amid the fading wilderness around

Such lingering hues as Eden's holy bowers

In earth's first radiance wore, and only found

Where not a cloud of sullen sadness lours.
Oh ! how the pride and glory of this world

May pass unmirrored o'er the darkened mind,
Like gilded banners o'er the grave unfurled,

Or Beauty's witcheries flashed upon the blind.


Though this frail form hath felt the shafts of pain,

Though my soul sickens for her native sky,
In visionary hours my thoughts regain

Their early freshness, and soon check the sigh
That sometimes from mine inmost heart would swell

And mar a happier mood. Oh! then how sweet,
Dear Boys ! upon remembered bliss to dwell,

And here your pictured lineaments to greet !
'Till Fancy, bright Enchantress, shifts the scene

To British ground, and musical as rills,
Ye laugh and loiter in the meadows green,

Or climb with joyous shouts the sunny hills !
Calcutta, September 4, 1834.



Hail, stranger, hail ! whose eye shall here survey
The path of Time, where ruin marks his way,
When wildly moans the solemn midnight bird,
And the gaunt jackal's piercing cry is heard;
If thine the soul with sacred ardour fraught,
Rapt in the poet's dream, or sage's thought,
To thee, these mouldering walls a voice shall raise,
And sadly tell how earthly pride decays ;
How human hopes, like human works, depart,
And leave behind the ruins of the heart !


EVENING, ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGES. I WANDERED thoughtfully by Gunga's shore, While the broad sun upon the slumbering wave Its last faint flush of golden radiance gave, And tinged with tenderest hues some ruins hoar. Methinks this earth had never known before A calm so deep—'twas silent as the grave. The smallest bird its light wing could not lave In the smooth flood, nor from the green-wood soar, If but the tiniest branch its pinions stirred Or shook the dew-drops from the leaves, unheard. Like pictured shadows 'gainst the western beam The dark boats slept, while each lone helmsman stood Still as a statue !--the strange quietude Enthralled my soul like some mysterious dream !

SONNET_GRIEF. IMPASSIONED grief is dumb—no sign or sound Can form its faithful language. Sorrow's dart In fevered breasts awakes an inward smart That friendship may not share. Oh! curse profound, To bear each maddening passion darkly bound Within that fearful cell, the shrouded heart! The quivering lip, the quick convulsive start, But feebly tell the strife. The crowd around When sinks the strong man ’neath the sullen stream Thus see but bubbles rise,—these ill reveal The struggler's pangs! When mourners pant and teem With secret thought, and voiceless anguish feel, The world's calm brow~the charms of nature seem To mock the smothered soul's unheard appeal!

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