Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly
The wild wing'd breezes of the sea,
While from thy smiling, summer sky,
The ripening sun looks tenderly.
And thou-to whom thro' all this heat
My parboil'd thoughts still fondly turn,
Oh! in what "shady blest retreat"

Art thou ensconc'd, while here I burn?
Across the lawn, in the deep glade,
Where hand in hand we oft have stray'd,
Or commun'd sweetly, side by side,
Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide,
As gently on the pebbly beach

It lays its head, then ebbs away, Or round the rocks, with nearer reach, Throws up a cloud of silvery spray? Or to the firry woods, that shed Their spicy odours to the sun, Goest thou with meditative tread. Thinking of all things that are done Beneath the sky?—a great, big thought, Of which I know you're very fond. For me, my mind is solely wrought

To this one wish:-O! in a pond Would I were over head and ears!

(Of a cold ducking I've no fears) Or any where, where I am not; For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

IMPROMPTU.

You say you're glad I write-oh, say not so! My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well; And when the numbers freely from it flow,

'Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.

Castalia, fam'd of yore,-the spring divine,
Apollo's smile
upon its current wears:
Moore, and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
To me, it flows, a sullen stream of tears.

11

AN APOLOGY.

BLAME not my tears, love, to you has been given

The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows; The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,

And shines from your heart, on this life and its

woes.

Blame not my tears, love, on you her best treasure Kind nature has lavish'd, oh, long be it yours! For how barren soe'er be the path you now measure, The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.

Oh, ne'er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!

The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings; If thou ever must weep, may it shine thro' thy

weeping,

As the sun his warm rays thro' a spring show'r flings.

But blame not my tears, love, to me 'twas denied, And when Fate to my lips gave this life's mingled

cup,

She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter

tide,

And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

WERE they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furl'd,
On which the day soar'd to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,
Looking upon the never-resting earth;

All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,
And the fresh music of the summer rills?

Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep,
And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet,

The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?