Thrice twenty Summers have I seen,
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wint'ry wind have stood
In bloomless fruitless solitude,

Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame,
Carv'd many a long forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love hath whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! →

THE AFRICAN.

Oh! he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheeks; hold, hold thy merci less hand,

Pale tyrant for, beneath thy hard command, O'erweari'd nature sinks. The scorching sun

As pitiless as proud prosperity,

Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies, Arraigning, with his looks, the patient skies, While that inhuman trader lifts on high

The mangling scourge. Oh ye who, at your

ease,

Sip the blood-moisten'd beverage! thoughts

like these

Haply ye scorn: I thank thee, gracious God!
That I do feel upon my cheek, the glow
Of Indignation, when, beneath the rod,
A sable brother writhes in silent woe,

'STANZAS, ON THE DEATH OF A LORY.

Adieu my dear Lory-adieu !
No longer with mimic and play
And innocent prattle may you
Beguile a dull hour of my day.

The Lory is a native of the East and of very distinguished beauty amongst the Parrot tribe.

No more wilt thou feed from my

hand,

Or fed and with fullness opprest; Half asleep on my shoulder wilt stand, Then sink in my bosom to rest.

No more, feigning sleep as I'm laid,
Thy whispers of love shall I hear?
No more thy so soft serenade,

Pretty dear-pretty dear-pretty dear."

'Twas a dream I wou'd fondly suppose―
Cruel death wou'd not seize upon you—
I awoke, but alas! when I rose
I found my sad vision was true.

I awoke ere the moment of death,
And mournfully low did I hear
The call of thy last dying breath;

Pretty dear-pretty dear-pretty deaṛ.”

If haply thy spirit shou'd roam,
Across the wide Indian sea;

Be it happy, more happy at home,
Than erst an oxotic with me.

At home riper fruits it may find
At home more congenial heat;
A mistress so constant and kind,

Oh! where will the wanderer meet?

Adieu, my dear Lory, adieu!

But tell all the birds in your grove, No other will charm me like you, No other like you shall I love.

LORY'S GHOST,

'Twas at that solemn hour of night When ghosts come forth to view; Perch'd or on my chair a winged sprite, Aside my curtain drew.

"What business here, I sternly said,
All in the dead of night."
Unaw'd it pitch'd upon my bed,
And thus began the sprite.

"Dear lady, marvel not that I
"So soon am here again;
"So swiftly do we spirits fly
"Across the widest main.

Scarce had I bid in dying strain
"Adieu to thee, before

I found myself alive again,
" And on my native shore.

# Pois'd on the wing and on the ground, "In feather'd ranks did stand "My former friends, as soon I found, "To welcome me to land.

"With them I carol thro' the day
"And fly from grove to grove;
"At eve on some sequester'd spray
"I mourn my absent love.

"Oh pretty dear-as wont I cry"A Lory listning near,

"Advances and with tender sigh,

"Oh pretty dear—I cry again,— " My love he thinks is true;

"Poor bird! he little knows this strain

"Sweet are the fruits, that here I find, "And sweet is liberty;

"The cage and fruits I left behind,

"How sweeter still with thee!