Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’d
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword;
Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye,
O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly;
For here the warrior oft has rais’d his sword,
The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d;
Here too the sweet Recorder of the brave
Has sat and sung upon her hero’s grave. 
Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;
The very wood-dove loves its native grove: 
Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart
Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;
And on the land that gave thee birth bestow
The fondness which it claims, and treasures too.

A SONG.

TO THE MOON.

Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,
  To light a lover on his way;
Thou, Moon! along the silv’ry wave,
  Ah! safe this flutt’ring heart convey:—­

Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,
  The guide and guardian of our bliss,
A lover’s panting lips to lead,
  Or veil him in the ravish’d kiss.

Her white robe floats upon the air;
  My Lyra hears the dashing oar: 
Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair! 
  My soul is with her long before.

Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,
  And ev’ry anxious fear resign;
Ye tow’rs, no longer fear’d, adieu! 
  The treasure which ye held is mine!

LINES

Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams,

WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.

When Time a mellowing tint has thrown
  O’er many a scene to mem’ry dear. 
It scatters round a charm, unknown
  When first th’ impression rested there.

But, oh! should distance intervene,
  Should Ocean’s wave, should changeful clime. 
Divide—­how sweeter far the scene! 
  How richer ev’ry tint of time!

E’en thus with those (a treasur’d few)
  Who gladden’d life with many a smile,
Tho’ long has pass’d the sad adieu,
  In thought we love to dwell awhile.

Then with keen eye, and beating heart,
  The anxious mind still seeks relief
From those who can the tale impart,
  How pass their day, in joy or grief.

If haply health and fortune bless,
  We feel as if on us they shone;
If sickness and if sorrow press,
  Then feeling makes their woes our own.

’Twas thus of Mira oft I thought,
  Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac’d: 
Her form in beauty’s mould was wrought,
  Her mind the seat of sense and taste.

Long, hov’ring o’er her fleeting breath,
  Love kept his watch in silent gloom;
He saw her meekly yield to Death,
  And knelt a mourner at her tomb.

When the night-breeze shall softly blow,
  When the bright moon upon the flood
Shall spread her beams (a silv’ry show),
  And dark be many a waving wood,—­