THE STEAM-BOAT.

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine _Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, What chart, what compa.s.s, shapes that course of thine, Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?

Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea?

Art thou a PaG.o.d moving in thine ire?

Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, A Ghiber? I must own thee "G.o.d of fire."

The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, Blackness and darkness track thy course without, And fire and groans and vapours strive within.

And they who cling about thee--who are they?

And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say!

Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight.

Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton sh.o.r.e, Straining my very eye-b.a.l.l.s from my _Cab;_ First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar, "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"

Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, While from my bosom this reflection broke; Although I think the steam-boat something proud, Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_.

To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it, And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it.

SONNET.

TO LYDIA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, And joys departed, still to memory dear!

If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, 'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.

May every after-season to thee bring New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, And angels waft thee to eternal day!

Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING.

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot, Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, To boundless hospitality and mirth, Be ever peace and joy--all care forgot, Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, The vocal syren of this sylvan scene.

Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.

Long be the social circle's grace and pride, Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, "The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:"

Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide!

_July, 1827_

TO THADDEUS.[1]

Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home.

Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste?

Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?

Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, Should feel a pang that death alone can end.

Yet I'll not chide thee--And when hence you roam, Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, And all thy failings I'll repay with love.

Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.

But if unkindly you refuse to hear, And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.

MATILDA.

[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but too well."]

YOUTH AND AGE.

I love the joyous thoughtless heart, The revels of the youthful mind, 'Ere sad experience points the dart, Which wounds so surely all mankind.

It glads me when the buoyant soul, Unconscious ranges, fancy free, Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, And thinking all as blest as he.

Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, The many griefs the future brings, That time must change that note to woe, Which now its merry carrol sings.

This "summer of the mind," alas!

Must have its autumn--leafless, bare, When all these pleasing phantoms pa.s.s, And end in winter, age, and care!

Such, such is life, the moral tells-- The tempest, and its sunny smiles, A warning voice the cheerful bells, The knell of death, our youth beguiles!

SENT FOR THE ALb.u.m

OF THE REV. G---- C----,

With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist.

Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter.

The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although _taken from life_, But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife.