I oft have thought how sweet 'twould be To steal the bird of Eden's art; And leave behind a trace of me On every kind and friendly heart, And like the breeze in fragrance rolled, To gather as I wander by, From every soul of kindred mould, Some touch of cordial sympathy. 'Tis the best charm in life's dull dream, To feel that yet there linger here Bright eyes that look with fond esteem, And feeling hearts that hold me dear. HOPE. See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath, One little star benignant peep, To light along their trackless path The wanderers of the stormy deep. And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form In sorrow's gloomy night shall be The sun that looks through cloud and storm Upon a dark and moonless sea. When heaven is all serene and fair, Full many a brighter gem we meet; 'Tis when the tempest hovers there, Thy beam is most divinely sweet. The rainbow, when the sun declines, Like faithless friend will disappear; Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines When all is wail and weeping here. And though Aurora's stealing beam May wake a morning of delight, 'Tis only thy consoling beam Will smile amid affliction's night. FRAGMENT. I. Tuscara! thou art lovely now, Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength Like plumage on a giant's brow, Have bowed their massy pride at length. The rustling maize is green around, The sheep is in the Congar's bed; And clear the ploughman's whistlings sound Where war-whoop's pealed o'er mangled dead. Fair cots around thy breast are set, Like pearls upon a coronet; And in Aluga's vale below The gilded grain is moving slow Like yellow moonlight on the sea, Where waves are swelling peacefully; As beauty's breast, when quiet dreams Come tranquilly and gently by; When all she loves and hopes for seems To float in smiles before her eye. II. And hast thou lost the grandeur rude That made me breathless, when at first Upon my infant sight you burst, The monarch of the solitude? No; there is yet thy turret rock, The watch-tower of the skies, the lair Of Indian Gods, who, in the shock Of bursting thunders, slumbered there; And trim thy bosom is arrayed In labour's green and glittering vest, And yet thy forest locks of shade Shake stormy on that turret crest. Still hast thou left the rocks, the floods, And nature is the loveliest then, When first amid her caves and woods She feels the busy tread of men; When every tree, and bush, and flower, Springs wildly in its native grace; Ere art exerts her boasted power, That brightened only to deface. III.