ate I saw him on his staff reclin'd,
Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes,
Without a roof to shelter from the wind
His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows.
All tremb'ling he approach'd, he strove to speak;
The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd;
A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek,
Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.
For he had known full many a better day;
And when the poor-man at his threshold bent,
He drove him not with aching heart away,
But freely shar'd what Providence had sent.
How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave,
And live to want the mite his bounty gave!

TO .........

Come, Jenny, let me sip the dew,
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely, thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suffrer's parting sigh;
In pity then, my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die!

THE RUNAWAY.

Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam
Discern'd, the statue of distress:
Weeping beside the willow'd stream
That bathes the woodland wilderness?

Why talks he to the idle air?
Why, listless, at his length reclin'd,
Heaves he the groan of deep despair,
Responsive to the midnight wind?

Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why?
--Sir! he has lost his wife, they say--
Of what disorder did she die?
--Lord, sir! of none--she ran away.

SONG

THE BLUE-EYED MAID.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
With health and joy salutes the day,
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
Soft wispering 'wakes the blushing May:
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.
The mellow horn's long-echoing notes
Startle the morn commingling strong;
At eve, the harp's wild music floats,
And ravish'd silence drinks the song;
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When Emma's voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester'd in the silent vale.

BERTRAM AND ANNA.

Stranger! if thou e'er did'st love,
If nature in thy bosom glows,
A Minstrel, rude, may haply move,
Thine heart to sigh for Anna's woes.

Lo! beneath the humble tomb,
Obscure the luckless maiden sleeps;
Round it pity's flowerets bloom,
O'er it memory fondly weeps.

And ever be the tribute paid!
The warm heart's sympathetic flow:
Richer by far, ill-fated maid!