TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale it never feels:

Deceit the guilty lips impart,

And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.

As thus our glances oft conversed,

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us."
Though what they uttered I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;

For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,

Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,

And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,

The dictate of my bosom's care:

"May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker,

That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,

But bliss be aye her heart's partaker.
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget."

SONG.

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climbed thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow: To gaze on the torrent that thundered beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below, Untutored by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-covered wild: One image alone on my bosom impressed,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blessed; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billow of Dee's rushing tide,

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-covered couch of repose,
No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanished, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witnessed before:
Ah! splendor has raised, but embittered, my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew;
Though my hopes may have failed, yet they are not forgot;
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,

I think on those eyes that endeared the rude scene:
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,

I think of the long-flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? — ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? 6

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive, Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can live,—

I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven.

Ah! frown not sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

Nor deem me too happy in this;

If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,

Thus doomed but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient !

When dreams of your presence my slumber beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient.