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countenance so informed with beauty, with intellect and with sensibility, as in parting for ever from old friends and familiar scenes. At such a time every one is a poet, and looks upon human life and external nature with a deep and solemn feeling. They who are apt in ordinary seasons to take a literal and vulgar view of all things, assume a higher tone, and see something to feel, to admire, and to cherish beyond the range of their daily thoughts and avocations.
But let us pass over the trial of separation, and trace the after progress of the friends who leave us. The hurry and excitement of embarkation, and the novelty of their position, are circumstances well calculated to shorten the pain of parting, and give a fresh impulse to the mind. When they are once fairly launched on the wide blue ocean, the relief from all common cares and duties-the holiday feeling—the exultation of spirit occasioned by a change of air and scene—all dispose them to give a ready welcome to cheerful thoughts, and to banish every unpleasing recollection. Then grave men become as frolicksome as children, and take a deep interest in those trifles and amusements which during their long weary exile and amidst far higher cares were either forgotten or despised. They seem
They seem as if they had taken a new lease of life. The fountain of early pleasure is unlocked. Their first fresh feelings return upon their hearts, and they become as frank and social, and as sanguine and as willing to be pleased, as in the generous ardor of their boyhood. Each new occurrence in their progress--a change of wind or weather—the capture of a fish or bird—the discovery of a ship, like a speck of cloud on the far horizon—a dinner or a dance with the strangers, when the two little oaken worlds in the vast space of waters, arrive in contact—the touching at some small uninhabited island, as solitary and romantic as the residence of Robinson Crusoe—and finally the first pale glimmering of the snow-white cliffs of Albion, make their hearts bound within them, and they feel as they have often thought that they should never feel again!
As they approach the shores hallowed by so many early associations and of which they have thought and dreamt for so many years, with what tumultuous eagerness they crowd into the first boat that reaches the vessel's side! At last they leap upon their native earth ; and they who mix reflection with their transport, look back with grateful wonder at their escapes by land and sea, and rejoice in the consummation of their long cherished hopes.
No language could paint the feelings with which those Indian parents who have sent children home at an early age hurry from the sea-port town at which they land, to embrace again their living treasures ! The first excess of joy at such a meeting may border upon pain ; but when the deep and wild emotion begins to moderate, there is no earthly felicity with which it could be compared. It is almost a compensation for the pangs of parting, and the miseries of exile.
SONNET_WRITTEN IN INDIA.
The scene is sweetly changed! The lord of day
and the songs
LINES TO A LADY
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND
GREEN herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste,
How small a spark may kindle fancy's flame,
Gone is the sweet illusion-like a scene
As o'er the fairest skies
As when this outward world
So in the realms of mind,
SONNETS_WRITTEN AT SEA.
[FINE WEATHER.] The plain of ocean 'neath the crystal air Its azure bound extends—the circle wide Is sharply clear,-contrasted hues divide The sky and water. Clouds, like hills that wear The winter's snow-wrought mantle, brightly fair, Rest on the main's blue marge. As shadows glide O’er dew-decked fields, the calm ship seems to slide O'er glassy paths that catch the noon-tide glare As if bestrown with diamonds. Quickly play The small crisp waves that musically break Their shining peaks.-And now, if aught can make Celestial spirits wing their downward way, Methinks they glitter in the proud sun's wake, And breathe a glorious beauty on the day!
[A CALM, AFTER A GALE.] Like mountain-mists that roll on sultry airs, Unheard and slow the huge waves heave around That lately roared in wrath. The storm-fiend, bound Within his unseen cave, no longer tears The vexed and wearied main. The moon appears, Uncurtaining wide her azure realms profound To cheer the sullen night. Though not a sound Reposing Nature breathes, my rapt soul hears The far-off murmur of my native streams Like music from the stars—the silver tone Is memory's lingering echo. Ocean's zone Infolds me from the past ;--this small bark seems The centre of a world- -an island lone; And home's dear forms are like departed dreams!