Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy:

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble pray'r,

And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I sleep's dull pow'r to woo:

Press ye still the downy bed,

While fev'rish dreams surround your head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapt in contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

THE SHIPWRECK'D SOLITARY'S SONG,

TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tow'r high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the woulds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the moontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam. And I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my ev'ning song.

And I have hail'd the grey morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And try to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, upon the ocean shore

As when

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

Aerial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man.

And when the blust'ring winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,

That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-ton'd winds, the moaning sea,
The whisp'ring of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The Condor's hollow scream.

SONNET.

SWEET to the gay of heart is summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing spring;
But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string—
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of fairies ring,

And melancholy wastes the vital fire?

Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave
Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave,
Direct my steps;-there, in the lonely drear,

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse
'Till through my soul shall peace her balm infuse,
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.

END OF VOL. I.

W. Wilson, Printer, St. Jolin's Square, London.