Smooth glides with thee my pensive hour, Thou warm'st to life my languid mind; Thou cheer'st a frame with genial pow'r, Breathe, cherub! breathe! Once soft and warm, Like thine, the gale of fortune blew ; How has the desolating storm Swept all I gaz'd on from my view! Unseen, unknown, I wait my doom, Monthly Review. THE DREAM. STAY, gentle spirit of the night, Prolong my dream, forbid the day. Sleeping, I thought my Myra fair The maid had ever been unkind. Still seems her form my sight to bless, Still vibrate on my list'ning ears, The murmurs that confess'd her kind; Still in mine eyes the trembling tears, Wak'd by her tenderness, I find. The sighs that from her bosom stole, Even now my ravish'd senses fire; My pulses throb, and all my soul Aches with regret, and fond desire. Hear, spirit kind! thy suppliant hear, Ah! know, that to thy shadowy aid, Will ever on my love bestow. Critical Review. MY NATIVE HOME. O'ER breezy hill, or woodland glade, Or pensive moonlight's silver grey, While at the foot of some old tree, Tho' love a fragrant couch may weave, And reason scorn the splendid hoard ; To him the rushy roof is dear, And sweetly calm the darkest glen; While pomp, and power, and pride appear, At best, the glitt'ring plagues of men; Unsought by those that never roam, Forgetful of their native home. Let me to summer shades retire The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse: And oh! when youth's extatic hour, Nottingham Journal. STANZAS. FAREWELL, dear Glenowen! adieu to thy mountains, Where oft I have wander'd to welcome the day; Farewell to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains, Which stray thro' the valley, and moan as they stray: O'er wide foamy waters I'm destin'd to travel," A poor, simple exile, forlorn and unknown; Yet while the dark fates shall my fortune unravel, My thoughts, my affections, shall still be thy own. Thy cities, proud Gallia, thy wide spreading treasures, May bid the heart, dancing to fancy's wild measures, Sweet vistas of myrtle, and paths of gay roses, And hills deck'd with vineyards, and woodlands with shade, Fresh banks of young vi'lets where fancy reposes, d; And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid The dark silent grotto, the soft-flowing fountains, Where nature's own music slow murmurs along; The sun-beams that dance on the pine-cover'd mountains, May waken to rapture their own native throng. But thou, dear Glenowen! can'st bring sweeter pleasure, The keen blast may howl o'er thy vallies and mountains, Walsingham, |