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FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE

SOUTH.
SOFT cherub of the southern breeze,

Oh! thou whose voice I love to hear,
When lingering through the rustling trees,

With lengthen’d sighs it soothes minè ear; Oh! thou whose fond embrace to meet,

The young Spring all enamour'd flies, And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,

And on thee pours her laughing eyes; Thou at whose call the light fays start,

That silent in their hidden bower Lie penciling with tenderest art

The blossom thin and infant flower;
Soft cherub of the southern breeze!

Oh! if aright I tune the reed
Which thus thine ear would hope to please

By simple lay and humble meed;
And if aright, with anxious zeal,

My willing hands this bower have made, Still let this bower thine influence feel,

And be its gloom thy favourite shade! For thee of all the cherub train

Alone my votive Muse would woo; Of all that skim along the main,

Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue; Of all that slumber in the grove,

Or playful urge the gossamer's flight, Or down the vale or streamlet move,

With whisper soft and pinion light.

I court thee, through the glimmering air,

When morning springs from slumbers still, And waving bright his golden hair,

Stands tiptoe on yon eastern hill. I court thee, when at noon reclined,

I watch the murmuring insect throng
In many an airy spiral wind,

Or silent climb the leaf along.
I court thee, when the flowerets close,

And drink no more receding light,
And when calm eve to soft repose

Sinks on the bosom of the night.
And when, beneath the moon's pale beam,

Alone mid shadowy rocks I roam,
And waking visions round me gleam,

Of beings and of worlds to come. Smooth glides with thee my pensive hour,

Thou warm'st to life my languid mind; Thou cheer'st a frame with genial power,,

That droops in every ruder wind. Breathe, cherub! breathe! once soft and warm,

Like thine, the gale of Fortune blew, How has the desolating storm

Swept all I gazed on from my view! Unseen, unknown, I wait my doom,

The haunts of men indignant flee, Hold to my heart a listless gloom,

And joy but in the Muse and thee.

SMYTHE.

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine,

What vanity hath brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine

So bright whom I have bought so dear?

The tent rope's flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear, When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chericul's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams,

Of Teviot loved while still a child,

Of castled rocks stupendous piled, By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, daydreams sweet, from memory fade !

The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy play'd,

Revives no more in aftertime.

Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in Ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drearA gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer :

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine;

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,

I left a heart that loved me true! I cross'd the tedious ocean wave,

To roam in lands unkind and new.

The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my wither'd heart-the grave

Dark and untimely met my view;
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! comest thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun rays tipp'd with death has borne,

From love, from friendship, country torn,
To Memory's fond regréis the prey ?-

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn; Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay!

LEYDEN.

ODE.
BEGONE, pursuits so vain and light;
Knowledge, fruitless of delight;
Lean Study, sire of sallow Doubt,
I put thy musing taper out:
Fantastic all, a long adieu ;
For what has love to do with you?
For, lo, I go where Beauty fires,
To satisfy my soul's desires;

VOL. II.

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For, lo, I seek the sacred walls
Where Love and gentle Beauty calls:
For me she has adorn'd the room,
For me has shed a rich perfume:
Has she not prepared the tea?
The kettle boils- -she waits for me.

I come not single, but along
Youthful sports a jolly throng!
Thoughtless joke, and infant wiles ;
Harmless wit, and virgin smiles;
Tender words, and kind intent;
Languish fond, and blandishment;
Yielding courtesy, whisper low;
Silken blush, with cheeks that glow;
Chaste desires and wishes meet;
Thin-clad Hope, a footman fleet;
Modesty, that turns aside,
And backward strives her form to hide;
Healthful Mirth, still gay and young,
And Meekness with a maiden's tongue ;
Satire, by good humour dress'd
In a many-colour'd vest:
And enter leaning at the door,
Who send'st thy flaunting page before,
The roguish boy of kind delight,
Attendant on the lover's night;
Fair his ivory shuttle flies
Through the bright threads of mingling dyes,
As swift his rosy fingers move
To knit the silken cords of love;
And stop—who softly stealing goes ?
Occasion high on her tiptoes,
Whom Youth with watchful look espies,
To seize the forelock ere she flies,

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