I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine!
I fancied she I saw was mine;
But soon the beauteous vision flew--
The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew.

Yet still she lives within my breast,
There mem'ry has her form imprest:--
Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done,
Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone!

YARRIMORE.

[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]

My poor heart flutters like the sea
Now heaving on the sandy shore;
It seems to tell me you shall be
Never again near Yarrimore.

Far, far beyond the waves, I bend
Mine eyes, if I can land explore;
But o'er the waves I find no end,--
Yet there they say's my Yarrimore.

The hut he built is standing still,
Deck'd with the shells he cull'd from shore;
Our bow'r is waving on the hill,
But where, alas! is Yarrimore?

Within that bow'r I'll sit and sigh,
From dawn of day till day is o'er;
And, as the wild winds o'er me fly,
I'll call on gentle Yarrimore!

LINES TO MISS ----,

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE
OF THE SCOTISH NATION.

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
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