And long'd, with breaking heart to flee

On such white pinions o'er the sea!

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld!

I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld

Yon clouded line, come hurrying back; My lips are dry with vague desire,—

My cheek once more is hot with joyMy pulse, my brain, my soul on fire!—

Oh, what has changed that traveller-boy!

As leaves the ship this dying foam,

His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds home!

Adieu, oh soft and southern shore,

Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven!

Those forms of beauty seen no more,

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given!

Oh, still th' enamored sun delays,

And pries through fount and crumbling fane,

To win to his adoring gaze

Those children of the sky again!

Irradiate beauty, such as never

That light on other earth hath shone,
Hath made this land her home forever;
And could I live for this alone-

Were not my birthright brighter far
Than such voluptuous slave's can be-
Held not the West one glorious star
New-born and blazing for the free-

Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet—

Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget!

Adieu, oh fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim,

And though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore-

As spreads the rain-drop in the river
In which it may have flowed before-
To England, over vale and mountain,

My fancy flew from climes more fair-
My blood, that knew its parent fountain,

Ran warm and fast in England's air.

My mother! in thy prayer to-night

There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the lightComes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner !

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea!
The ear of heaven bends low to her!
He comes to shore who sails with me!

The wind-tost spider needs no token

How stands the tree when lightnings blazeAnd by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays!

Dear mother! when our lips can speak—
When first our tears will let us see-

When I can gaze upon thy cheek,

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me― 'Twill be a pastime little sad

To trace what weight time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had

For all may flee, so feeling lingers!

But there's a change, beloved mother!

To stir far deeper thoughts of thine;

I come-but with me comes another

To share the heart once only mine!

Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely,
One star arose in memory's heaven—
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only-
Watered one flower with tears at even-

Room in thy heart! The hearth she left
Is darken'd to lend light to ours!

There are bright flowers of care bereft,

And hearts that languish more than flowers

She was their light-their very air

Room, mother! in thy heart!-place for her in thy

prayer!

English Channel, May, 1836.

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by, And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death

Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low;
Yet still it burned, and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals
With difficult energy, and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back