Full oft, the sad season of absence to charm,
  To the rock or the dale she retir’d;
Where he told her the story, impassion’d and warm
  That faithful affection inspir’d.

And now on the eve of his promis’d return,
  All anxious, she flies to the strand;
But the night-shades descend ere her eye can discern
  The white-sail approaching the land.

With night comes the tempest, unaw’d by the blast
  She stood hem’d by ruin around;
She saw a frail bark on the rugged rock cast,
  And heard its lasts signals resound.

My lover is lost! we shall never meet more! 
  She shriek’d with prophetic dismay,
The morn seal’d her sorrows—­the wreck on the shore
  Was the vessel that bore him away.

Each hope her young bosom had cherish’d before,
  Was consign’d with the youth to the grave: 
She madden’d, she smil’d, as her ringlets she tore,
  And buried her woes in the wave.

SONNET.

TO LYDIA, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Blest be the hour that gave my Lydia birth,
  The day be sacred ’mid each varying year;
How oft the name recalls thy spotless worth,
  And joys departed, still to memory dear! 
If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,
  Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile. 
’Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,
  And on that tearful cheek imprint a smile. 
May every after season to thee bring
  New joys; to cheer life’s dark eventful way,
’Till time shall close thee in his pond’rous wing,
  And angels waft thee to eternal day! 
Lov’d maid, farewel! thy name this heart shall fill
’Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN IMPROMTU ON THE LATE PEACE.

“Why, there’s Peace, Jack, come damme let’s push
     round the grog,
And awhile altogether in good humor jog,
  For they say we shall soon go ashore;
Where the anchor of friendship may drift or be lost,
As on life’s troubled ocean at random we’re tost,
  And, perhaps, we may never meet more.”

Thus spoke Tom; while each messmate approvingly heard
That the contest was ended, their courage ne’er fear’d,
  And soon Peace would restore them to love;
And the hearts by wrongs rous’d, that no fear could assuage,
At Humanity’s shrine dropt the thunder of rage,
  And the Lion resign’d to the Dove!

Heaven smil’d on the olive that Reason had rear’d,
With her rich pearly tribute sweet Pity appear’d,
   And plac’d it on each brilliant eye;
’Twas the tear that Compassion had nurs’d in her breast,
To bestow on the friend, or the foe, if distress’d. 
   Like dew-drops distill’d from the sky!

Next on friends lost in battle they mournfully dwelt
’Twas a theme that together the heart and eye felt,
  And a bumper to valor they gave;
While the liquor that flow’d in the bless’d circling bowl
Was enrich’d by a tribute that flow’d from the soul,
  “A tear for the tomb of the brave!”