And they who cling about thee—­who are they? 
  And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits
On the dark banks of Styx for souls?  Oh, say! 
  Let me not burst in ignorance—­thy freight.

Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore,
  Straining my very eye-balls from my Cab;
First came two “ten-horse” laughs—­and then a roar,
  “Be off, queer Chap, or I’ll soon stop your gab!”

Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud,
  While from my bosom this reflection broke;
Although I think the steam-boat something proud,
  Such lofty questions often end in smoke. 
To all Grandiloquents a hint I deem it,
And whilst I live, I’ll ever such esteem it.

SONNET.

TO LYDIA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Bless’d be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
  The day be sacred ’mid each varying year;
How oft the name recals 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 the 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! 
Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill,
  Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING.

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq.  Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot,
Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth,
To boundless hospitality and mirth,
Be ever peace and joy—­all care forgot,
Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien,
Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles,
Long mayest thou grace it with affection’s smiles,
The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. 
Warbling thy sweetest notes ’midst flowers and woodlands green.

Long be the social circle’s grace and pride,
Of parents’ hopes, the dearest and the best,
“The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:” 
Who, when around the world’s fierce billows ride,
Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide!

July, 1827

TO THADDEUS.[1]

Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear,
  Though thou hast left me friendless and alone;
Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear,
  That hastes MATILDA to her wish’d-for home.

Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made,
  To journey cheerless through the world’s wide waste? 
Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade,
  And doom me, thus, affliction’s cup to taste?