Zorayda to Selim.

Such is the lyre which SELIM, when a child,

Received with rapture from the pensive muse; Its whispers please him, though untaught and wild, But loftier tones the trembling chords refuse.

O then permit him still the gentler strain,
In all its tender languishments, to wake;
For, if he rudely sweep the strings again,
He fears, Zorayda, that his lyre will break.

TO SELIM.

Has Selim the soul which his numbers portray,
And is it express'd in the glance of his eye ?
Then would I for ever exist in the ray,

While mine to his harp should respond with a sigh.

If his heart truly throb to the notes of his lyre,
And is in his accents as sweetly express'd
His voice must be music-must rapture inspire ;
To quaff the rich melody is to be blest.

If his feelings are justly portray'd by his muse,
And are in his visage correctly display'd,
What fair but with rapture that visage reviews,
Reflection's fair model, by beauty array'd?

The Harbour of Happiness.

In short, if his mind is express'd in his lays,

So melting in sorrow, in rapture so warm, And his form correspond-it were rashness to gaze, The heart, unresisting, must yield to the charm.

But, ah! if hypocrisy warble the strain,

And the soul have no part in its magical sweets, O tell me and then ape Apollo in vain, But never emerge from thy secret retreats.

THE HARBOUR OF HAPPINESS.

Embark'd on the ocean of life,
I steer'd for the haven of bliss;
But thro' passion's tempestuous strife,
My reckoning was ever A-MISS.

For Pleasure's enchanted domain

Allured me from Innocence's track

But her commerce, attended with pain,

Soon hove all my topsails aback.

On the waves of adversity tost,

And plung'd in the whirlpool of care,

The rudder of fortitude lost,

I struck on the rocks of despair.

The Harbour of Happiness.

But afloat and refitted once more,
With the chart of experience to guide,
Hope points to the much-desired shore,
While her breath bids the tempest subside.

No breakers or quicksands I fear,

While honour stands firm at the helm;
By the compass of reason I'll steer
To joy's paradisical realm.

Stern Virtue the port may blockade,
Yet Hymen will sanction my right,
And his torch, Cupid's pharos shall aid
To moor in the stream of delight.

Then, then may the genius of love,
An eternal embargo declare,

I'll never evade it, by Jove!

Nor barter in contraband ware.

A Dream.

A DREAM.

O stay, sweet vision! lovely phantom, stay!
And longer bless me with the mimic show;
Ah! fade not thus to empty air away,

And leave a wretch awake to real wo.

And did I dream? Oh! 'twas a dream so sweet, So full of bliss, that heaven had lost its charms; And I embraced the dear delusive cheat,

Then woke, and found despair within my arms.

Joy's sparkling goblet seems to overflow,

Her banquet now with tempting sweets appears But, ah! I wake to quaff the cup of wo,

Drink deep of grief, and feast upon my tears.

Where now has fled the bliss I fancied mine? Where are the forms which tempted to deceive? Vanish'd in air! but, ah! have left behind

A wounded wretch, whom nothing can relieve.

Is life a dream! then, messenger of peace,
Prepare thy bow, thy barbed dart I'll kiss ;
Dissolve the charm, O bid the vision cease,

And let me wake to everlasting bliss.

The Poplar.

THE POPLAR.

O green was the Poplar when, under its shade,
I exchanged the soft vow with the New-Haven maid!
But Winter soon blighted its sweet summer hue,
So hope faded when I bade Mary adieu!

Three years shall I wander before I return,
But still this fond bosom for Mary shall burn,
My heart, like the compass, is constant and true”-
She wept as I murmur'd, dear Mary, adieu!

But doom'd was my Mary another to bless,

And doom'd is her lover to pine in distress;
Like the leaves of the Poplar, which tempests then strew,
My hopes were all scattered; so, Mary, adieu!

The spring soon return'd, and the Poplar was drest; But peace had for ever forsaken my breast;

From the music of Nature no comfort I drew,

For the birds and the streams murmur'd, Mary, adieu !

When, torn by my sorrows, I bow to my doom,
Will a tear from my Mary e'er fall on my tomb!
When the leaves on the Poplar are blasted and few,
They'll sigh in the breeze, lovely Mary, adieu!