The piercing shriek of agony I gave

Was heard above the roar of wind and wave!
A rope was cast-I seiz'd it as it fell,

And thus was sav'd the wondrous tale to tell!

THE SCHOOL-BOYS.

"TWAS evening mild: the sun's departing eye
Clos'd on the hills that skirt the western sky;
Deep from the grove the stock-dove's notes were heard,
Tuned to the courtship of his listening bird;

Lone in the vale the abbey's tower was seen
Clad in the ivy's venerable

green:
From every cot the smoke in columns curl'd,
And sweetness smil'd on all the vernal world.
In such a spot Contentment seem'd to dwell,
Sick of the town, beneath her turf-clad cell :
Sequester'd here from fashion's high-bred trains,
The tenant knows not folly's secret pains;
Unconscious he of half the joys that crown
The taste, the mode, the learning of the town;
Unconscious, too, of all their secret woe,
And all the mighty nothingness of shew.

I wander'd down the vale and pass'd the spot
Where once my guardian held his peaceful cot;
I pass'd the house where oft, with careless look,
I nam'd the letters from the pictur'd book;
I saw the scenes, where, fond of careless play,
On thy blest afternoon, sweet Saturday!
Perhaps I rais'd the magpies chattering tongue
I'the airy castle where she rock'd her young;
Or in hand-breadth canals decoy'd the rill
To spout upon my little water-mill;
Or, by the marsh, cut down the hollow cane,
And uninspir'd piped out my noisy strain;
Till my kind friends, in anxious search, descried
Their daubled vagrant by the streamlet's side,
And, wondering at my stay, with sharp reproof,
Led back my footsteps to their humble roof.

But, while I pass'd along, the village tower
Rung through the vale the sweet dismissing hour;
Anon from school the master's stripling crew,

With all the noise of youthful vigour flew.

Round the gay green they wheel'd in sportive chase,
With chubby laughter smirking in each face.
One only came with sad depending brow,
And o'er the threshold ventur'd sour and slow;

He, set perhaps upon the dunce's stool,
Crown'd with the paper night-cap of the fool,
In pettish mood now saunter'd o'er the green,
Too sad to mingle with the jocund scene;
Home to his mother straight he seem'd to go,
To tell the indulging parent all his woe,
And ask that medicine for a watery eye-
A butter'd cake till he forgot to cry.

Not so the rest, whose parents seem'd to approve
The master's admonition, rod, or love;
With them, the task, and all its irksome care,
Was whirled with their bonnets in the air;
And as a plant confin'd, in some close room,
Nods o'er the flower-pot with a sickly bloom,
But placed abroad to imbibe the nursing dews,
Its blossoms glow with all their lovely hues;
So they, long pent within their silent seat,
Find health in play, and play itself more sweet.
Some shot the marble from the chalky ring,
While some with wooden bit and plaited string,
Well pleas'd, with trotting pace, ran round the course
In the strange fancy of a postboy's horse:
With groping hand by handkerchief made blind,
One tried to catch the followers behind;

With stones and turf some built the Trojan walls,
While through the air some toss'd the bounding balls;
Some tried the sailor's, some the mason's trade,
And some at pitch-and-toss with buttons play'd;—
The master's frown, the strap with triple thong,
Were banish'd in the whistle and the song;
And the hard lesson that employ'd the day,
Was now exchang'd for salutary play.
Oh, lovely age! in careless passions blest!
Of man's few years the happiest and the best!
No future thoughts disturb their youthful year-
Play all their hope, the master all their fear
No wish have they for wealth's ambitious curse,
The fair-day penny fills their little purse;
No mad desire through glory's ranks to pass,
Their highest glory-general of the class!
Say, do the splendid pleasures that engage
The wiser state of man's maturer age,
Bestow such real, such intrinsic bliss,
As flows from youthful innocence like this?
Alas! the sweets which many a fool pursues,
Like Israel's quails, oft curse him as he chews;
While these not only luscious while they last,
Like Plato's feast, grow sweeter when they're past!

Thy heroes o'er the tide of time,
All dim and distant though it be,
Still tower immortal and sublime,
As mountains soar above the sea.
Eternity their tale shall tell—
Through future ages, as they roll,
Shall despots fade before its spell,
As doth a burning scroll!

The False One's followers crowd thy shore;

Amidst thy scenes they seek to dwell;

Give them thy gift to foes of yore,

Within thy breast a silent cell.

But living may not one remain,
To cast a shadow over thee,
Or wake the bitter thought again
Of shame and slavery!

THE EXILE.

THROUGH brighter climes the exile roves,
His breast is fann'd by softer air;
His path is all through Indian groves,

As bowers of Genii fair.

And on those shores the waveless tide,
So blue, so lovely, sleeps in light,
As if with them it softly vied,

To shew a realm as bright.

But the lone Wanderer coldly views
Those regions of the day-star's reign;
And light and summer's thousand hues
Flush their own world in vain.

He sees not when the bee-bird's plume
Is glancing in the morning-rays,

He marks not when, through evening's gloom,
The fire-fly's lustre plays.

Soft o'er his cheek the breeze may sigh,

It cannot chase the tint of care

And fairy scenes that meet his eye
Light not one sparkle there.
But were he by his native stream,
On his own heath-clad rocky shore,

That cheek would glow, that eye would beam,
With health's young smile once more!