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So oft hath into chaos hurl'd

The systems of the ancient world!

The warrior here, in arms no more,
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,
And glorying in the rights they won
For hearth and altar, sire and son,
Smiles on the dusky webs that hide
His sleeping sword's remember'd pride!
While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,
Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil,
Effacing with her splendid share

The drops that War had sprinkled there!
Thrice happy land! where he who flies
From the dark ills of other skies,
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes,
May shelter him in proud repose!
Hope sings along the yellow sand
His welcome to a patriot land;
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives
The stranger in its world of leaves,
Which soon their barren glory yield
To the warm shed and cultured field;

And he, who came, of all bereft,

To whom malignant Fate had left

Nor home nor friends nor country dear,
Finds home and friends and country here!

Such is the picture, warmly such,

That long the spell of Fancy's touch
Hath painted to my sanguine eye
Of man's new world of liberty!
Oh! ask me not if Truth will seal
The reveries of Fancy's zeal,
If yet my charmed eyes behold
These features of an age of gold-
No-yet, alas! no gleaming trace! *
Never did youth, who loved a face
From portrait's rosy, flattering art,
Recoil with more regret of heart,

*Such romantic works as The American Farmer's Letters, and the Account of Kentucky, by IMLAY, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world, for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers too, almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession.

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Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray,
Than I have felt, indignant felt,

To think the glorious dreams should melt,
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time,
Have wrapt me to this wondrous clime!

*

But, courage yet, my wavering heart!
Blame not the temple's meanest part,
Till you have traced the fabric o'er :-
As yet, we have beheld no more
Than just the porch to Freedom's fane,
And, though a sable drop may stain
The vestibule, 'tis impious sin
To doubt there's holiness within!
So here I pause-and now, my KATE,
To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate
Can claim more interest in my soul
Than all the Powers from pole to pole)

*Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived, the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odour that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

One word at parting-in the tone

Most sweet to you, and most my own.
The simple notes I send you here,*
Though rude and wild, would still be dear,
If you but knew the trance of thought
In which my mind their murmurs caught.
"Twas one of those enchanting dreams,
That lull me oft, when Music seems
To pour the soul in sound along,
And turn its every sigh to song!
I thought of home, the according lays
Respired the breath of happier days;
Warmly in every rising note

I felt some dear remembrance float,
Till, led by Music's fairy chain,
I wander'd back to home again!
Oh! love the song, and let it oft
Live on your lip, in warble soft!
Say that it tells you, simply well,
All I have bid its murmurs tell,
Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed

The tinge of joy when joy is fled,

* A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this Epistle.

And all the heart's illusive hoard

Of love renew'd and friends restored!
Now, sweet, adieu-this artless air,
And a few rhymes, in transcript fair,*
Are all the gifts I yet can boast
To send you from Columbia's coast;
But when the sun, with warmer smile,
Shall light me to my destined Isle, †
You shall have many a cowslip-bell
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell
In which the gentle spirit drew
From honey flowers the morning dew!

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

CONCEAL'D within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew to cull her rustic food,

The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her path-way rise,

The mother roams, astray and weeping;

* The

poems which immediately follow.

+ Bermuda.

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