Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy land.

For sure from some enchanted isle

Where heav'n and love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile

Of beauty's fairest brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heav'd, Where tears of rapture lovers weep,

Endear'd, undoubting, undeceiv'd; From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost.... Where Nature lights her leading star,

And Love is never, never cross'd.

Oh Gentle gale of Eden bow'rs,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless hours

In Nature's more propitious home,

Name to thy lov'd elysian groves,

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves,

And let the name be CAROLINE.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me?
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !
Though bush or flowret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murm'ring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive

Yet leave this barren spot to me;

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !

Thrice twenty summers I have seen,
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless fruitless solitade,
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 forgotton name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground;
By all that love has whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,

Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of heav'n

Beloved star dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows, So due thy plighted step returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seemst to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above, Descends and burns to meet with thee.

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