CI. TO A WATERFOWL.-Bryant. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,→ The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned And soon that toil shall end, Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven He, who from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, CII. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.-Burns. The small-birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the sweet dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice? A King and a Father to place on his throne! His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my suffering,-thus wretched, forlorn! My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial! Alas! can I make you no sweeter return! CIII. NOURMAHAL.-Moore. There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, That charm of all others, was born with her face; At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depths of whose shadow, like holy revealings, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. any When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. CIV. CATHARINA.—Addressed to Miss Stapleton.-Cowper. The sun of that moment is set, And seems to have risen in vain. The last evening ramble we made, By the Nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree, And much was she charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witnessed her own. Could infuse into numbers of mine. The work of my fancy the more, Tho' the pleasures of London exceed Would feel herself happier here; Than aught that the city can show. Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home; And with scenes that new rapture inspire, She will have just the life she prefers, CV. THE OLD MAN.—Mrs. Sigourney. Why gaze ye on my hoary hairs, I had a mother once, like you, She, when the nightly couch was spread, But then, there came a fearful day, Till harsh hands bore me thence away, I plucked a fair white rose, and stole And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, That eve I knelt me down in woe And said a lonely prayer, Yet, still my temples seemed to glow |