Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air,
Then hither fly, and to my harp_repair;
At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay,
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away.

THE COQUETTE.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,
My Ellen's lost for aye,

My heart is sair and much distressed,
I surely soon must die.

I canna think o' wark at a',
My eyes still wander far,

I see her neck like driven snaw,
I see her flaxen hair.

Sair, sair, I begged; she would na' hear,
She proudly turned awa',
Unmoved she saw the trickling tear,
Which, spite o' me, would fa'.

She acted weel a conqueror's part,
She triumphed in my woe,
She gracefu' waved me to depart,
I tried, but could na' go.

"Ah why," (distractedly I cried,)

66

Why yield me to despair?

Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway,
To ease my heart sae sair."

She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go!
This roused my dormant pride;
I craved nae boon-I took nae luke,
"Adieu!" I proudly cried.

I fled! nor Ellen hae I seen,
Sin' that too fatal day:

My "bosom's laird" sits heavy here,
And Hope's fled far away.

Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm,
I'm Sorrow's child indeed;
She stamps her image on my form,
I wear the mourning weed!

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled !
Low lies thy body in its grassy bed;

But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air,
Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share.

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white, Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright.Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below, And mark their trickling tears of silent woe.

Look down with pity in thy infant eye,

And view the friends thou left, for friends on high;
Methinks I see thee leaning from above,
To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love.

"Weep not for me, for I am happy still,
And murmur not at our great Father's will;

Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake,
Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take.

"Once you looked forward to life's opening day,
The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way;
Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near,
Coloured it bright—'t is blotted with a tear.

"Then let that tear be Resignation's child;
Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild;
Weep for your child no more, she's happy still,
And murmur not at your great Father's will."

REFLECTIONS,

ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT PHOENIX.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Islet* on the lake's calm bosom,
In thy breast rich treasures lie;
Heroes! there your bones shall moulder,
But your fame shall never die.

Islet on the lake's calm bosom,
Sleep serenely in thy bed;
Brightest gem our waves can boast,
Guardian angel of the dead!

Calm upon the waves recline,

Till great Nature's reign is o'er; Until old and swift-winged time

Sinks, and order is no more.

* Crab Island; on which were buried the remains of the sailors who fell in the action of September 11th, 1814.

Then thy guardianship shall cease,

Then shall rock thy aged bed; And when Heaven's last trump shall sound, Thou shalt yield thy noble dead!

THE STAR OF LIBERTY.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

There shone a gem on England's crown,

Bright as yon star;
Oppression marked it with a frown,
He sent his darkest spirit down,

To quench the light that round it shone,
Blazing afar.

But Independence met the foe,

And laid the swift-winged demon low.

A second messenger was sent,

Dark as the night;

On his dire errand swift he went,
But Valour's bow was truly bent,
Justice her keenest arrow lent,

And sped its flight;

Then fell the impious wretch, and Death Approached, to take his withering breath.

Valour then took, with hasty hand,

The gem of light;

He flew to seek some other land,

He flew to 'scape oppression's hand,
He knew there was some other strand,
More bright;

And as he swept the fields of air,
He found a country, rich and fair.

Upon its breast the star he placed,

The star of liberty;

Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed
The lesser planets stood amazed,

Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed,

Looking on fearfully.

That star shines brightly to this day,
On thy calm breast, America!

THE MERMAID.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock,
Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the

rock,

Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride
O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide?
Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod,
Flies to obey the mandate of that god?
Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on,
Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun?
Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock,
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock;
Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm,
Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form?
Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play,
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way?
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge?
Tell me, mysterious being, what you are?
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair!