Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field;

No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd!
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay, Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale,

It darkly hints a melancholy tale!

There, as the homeless madman sits alone,

In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!

And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,

When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.

Poor lost Alonzo! Fate's neglected child!

Mild be the doom of Heaven-as thou wert mild!

For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,

And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last,

Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear

The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier! When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd, Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd ground!

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave-oh! leave, the light of HOPE behind!

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel-visits, few and far between,

Her musing mood shall every pang appease,

And charm-when pleasures lose the power to please!

Yes! let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee

Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea-
Mirth, music, friendship, Love's propitious smile,
Chase every care, and charm a little while,
Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,

And all her strings are harmonized to joy!-
But why so short is Love's delighted hour?
Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower?

Why can no hymned charm of music heal

The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel?

Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create,

To hide the sad realities of fate?

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom s worldly school

Have power to sooth, unaided and alone,

The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!
When stepdame Nature every bliss recals,
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls;
When, 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears
A lonely hermit in the vale of years;

Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow
To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe?
No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,——
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you!
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again!

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,

What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu!

Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,

And bade his country and his child farewell!
Doom'd the long isles of Sydney cove to see,
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee?
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,
And thrice return'd, to bliss thee, and to part;
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe;

Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom,

As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore,

My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!