Happy the man who, safe on shore, Now trims, at home, his evening fire; Unmov'd, he hears the tempests roar, That on the tufted groves expire: Alas! on us they doubly fall,

Our feeble barque must bear them all. Now to their haunts the birds retreat, The squirrel seeks his hollow tree, Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,

All, all are blest but wretched weForedoomed a stranger to repose, No rest the unsettled ocean knows. While o'er the dark abyss we roam, Perhaps, with last departing gleam, We saw the sun descend in gloom,

No more to see his morning beam; But buried low, by far too deep, On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!

But what a strange, uncoasted strand Is that, where fate permits no dayNo charts have we to mark that land, No compass to direct that way--What Pilot shall explore that realm, What new Columbus take the helm!

Your absent charms my thoughts employ:
I sigh to think how sweet you sung,
And half adore the painted toy
That near my careless heart you hung.

Now, fettered fast in icy fields,
In vain we loose the sleeping sail;
The frozen wave no longer yields,
And useless blows the favoring gale.

Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers,
And breezes, moist with morning dew,
I pass the lingering, lazy hours,
Reflecting on the spring-and you.
The Freeman's Journal,
Jan. 29, 1789.

1789)

20

25