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THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its less'ning turrets bluely fade;
Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew,
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hov'ring o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul.
Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove,
But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
FAR on the sands, the low retiring tide,
In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow, And o'er the world of waters, blue and wide, The sighing summer wind forgets to blow.
As sinks the day-star in the rosy west,
Or scenes of beauty sooth me to repose.
Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main,
Yon radiant heaven, or all creation's charms, Erase the written troubles of the brain,
Which memory tortures, and which guilt alarms; Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove,
That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love.
THE heart that throbs with latent woe,
Come, drowsy night, and shed the balm
That soft suspends each anxious care;
The pensive tumults of despair.
If 'midst thy wondrous magic power,
When mutual love invites me home.
Tho' twenty years their months have told,
The faithful fair within.
Bright as the star of ev'ning glows,
Mild as the breath of vernal gales,
The strains her lips supply.
WRITTEN ON THE PLAIN OF FONTENOY.
CHILL blows the blast, and twilight's dewy hand
A deeper shadow steals along the land,
Near this bleak waste no friendly mansion rears Its walls, where mirth, and social joys abound, But each sad object melts the soul to tears,
While horror treads the scatter'd bones around.
As thus alone and comfortless I roam,
Wet with the drizzling show'r; I sigh sincere, I cast a fond look tow'rds my native home, And think what valiant Britons perish'd here.
Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimson toil began; When nations' standards wav'd in threat'ning state, And man the murd'rer met the murd'rer man.
For war is murder, tho' the voice of kings
But sure, 'tis heav'n's immutable decree,
For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall; Some natural cause prevails, we cannot see, And that is fate, which we ambition call.
O let th' aspiring warrior think with grief,
Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to swell My feeble verse with many a sounding name; Of such, the mercenary bard may tell,
And call such dreary desolation fame.