"Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows

To watch on silent Nature's deep repose,

Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,

Foretells my fate, and summons me to come!

Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

"Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame !

Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!

Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne

Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!"

SONG.

Он, how hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be

False, unkind, or found too late,

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;

Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh 'Woe's me!'

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION,

1803.

OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,

And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or crush'd in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust God bless the green Isle of the brave!

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

VOL. II.

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide

Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?

To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen !—No!

A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,

And his blood be an offering to Heaven!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell;

Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-farewell.

The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet-oh! no, no, no!

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,

When thou art parted from my soul?

Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,

But not together,

no, no, no!