Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot, I’m very sure that thou hast not, All that we talked about that day, Of famous countries far away! Of Crusoes in their islands lone, That never were, nor will be known, And yet this very moment stand Upon some point of mountain land, Looking out o’er the desert sea, If chance some coming ship there be. Thou know’st we talked of this--thou know’st We talked about a ship-boy’s ghost-- A wretched little orphan lad Who served a master stern and bad, And had no friend to take his part, And perished of a broken heart; Or by his master’s blows, some said, For in the boat they found him dead, And the boat’s side was stained and red! And then we talked of many a heap Of ancient treasure in the deep, And the great serpent that some men, In far-off seas, meet now and then; Of grand sea-palaces that shine Through forests of old coralline; And wondrous creatures that may dwell In many a crimson Indian shell; Till I shook hands with thee, to see Thou wast a poet--Andrew Lee! Though thou wast guiltless all the time Of putting any thoughts in rhyme; Ah, little fisher boy! since then, Ladies I’ve seen and learned men, All clever, and some great and wise, Who study all things, earth and skies, Who much have seen, and much have read, And famous things have writ and said; But Andrew, never have I heard One who so much my spirit stirred, As he who sate with me an hour, Screened from the pelting thunder-shower-- Now laughing in his merry wit; Now talking in a serious fit, In speech that poured like water free; And that was thou--poor Andrew Lee! Then shame to think I knew thee not-- Thou hast not, nor have I forgot; And long ’twill be ere I forget How thou took’st up thy laden net, And gave me all that it contained, Because I too thy heart had gained! THE WANDERER’S RETURN. There was a girl of fair Provence, Fresh as a flower in May, Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate, Upon a summer-day, And thus unto a mourner young, In a low voice did say. “And said I, I shall dance no more; For though but young in years, I knew what makes men wise and sad,-- Affection’s ceaseless fears, And that dull aching of the heart, Which is not eased by tears. “But sorrow will not always last, Heaven keeps our griefs in view; Mine is a simple tale, dear friend, Yet I will tell it you; A simple tale of household grief And household gladness too. “My father in the battle died, And left young children three; My brother Marc, a noble lad, With spirit bold and free, More kind than common brothers are; And Isabel and me.