ALSTON, how many a pang has wrung my heart, Since from thy scenes in youth I joy'd to part! How often has my bosom shrunk to know The sigh of sorrow, and the weight of woe I knew not even the comfort of a tear O'er a beloved father's timeless bier; His clay-cold limbs I saw the grave inclose, And blest that fate which snatch'd him from his woes. Why wilt thou, Memory, still recall to view Each long-past joy, each long-lost friend anew? Paint not the scenes that pleas'd my soul of yore, Those friends are gone, those long-past joys no more; Cease to torment me, busy torturer, cease, Let cold oblivion's touch benumb my soul to peace! So when the morning smiles serene and mild, The cheerful pilgrim wanders o'er the wild; Soft through the bowering wood the breezes blow, And bubbling fountains sparkle as they flow; Sweet is to him the woodland's secret glade, Sweet the deep shelter of the dingle's shade: And oft he stops, delighted to survey The high hill's top reflect the lucid ray; Anon the face of heaven is overcast, Hoarse groan the woods responsive to the blast; The wild winds howl, the torrents thunder down, With darker hues the sullen mountains frown; All that the pilgrim, late with joy possest, O'ercast by horror now, englooms his shrinking breast. Yet, as the mariner, when tempest tost, Aghast he stands, and gives up all for lost; If at that moment, when with faultering breath He calls to heaven, and waits the rushing death; If then he sees the twin-born lights descend, His bosom brightens, and his terrors end. ARISTE! so when memory's painful sway Recalls the sorrow of the distant day; When the soft soother turns at length to thee, The gloom disperses, and the shadows flee; Grief's cankering pangs no more my bosom move, That beating bosom only bounds to Love. BION. * * * * * ROMANCE. What wildly-beauteous form, High on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill, Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand? Tho' speds the thunder there its deep'ning way, Tho' round her head the lightnings play, Undaunted she abides the storm; She waves her magic wand, The clouds retire, the storm is still; Bright beams the sun unwonted light around, And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground.