EPISTLE II.

ΤΟ

MISS M-—E.

TO MISS ME.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

IN days, my KATE, when life was new,
When, lull'd with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw, our eyelids close
And bless'd them into pure repose!
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I linger'd from your arms away,
How long the little absence seem'd!
How bright the look of welcome beam'd,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that pass'd the while!
Yet now, my KATE, a gloomy sea
Rolls wide between that home and me ;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Cre even your seal can reach mine eye;

And oh! even then, that darling seal
(Upon whose print I used to feel
The breath of home, the cordial air
Of loved lips, still freshly there!)
Must come, alas! through every fate
Of time and distance, cold and late,
When the dear hand whose touches fill'd
The leaf with sweetness may be chill'd!
But hence that gloomy thought! At last,
Beloved KATE! the waves are pass'd :
I tread on earth securely now,
And the green cedar's living bough
Breathes more refreshment to my eyes
Than could a Claude's divinest dyes!

At length I touch the happy sphere
To Liberty and Virtue dear,

Where man looks up, and, proud to claim

His rank within the social frame,

Sees a grand system round him roll,
Himself its centre, sun, and soul!
Far from the shocks of Europe; far
From every wild, elliptic star
That, shooting with a devious fire,

Kindled by Heaven's avenging ire,