Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm,

Deflow'ring nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form:-Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal cover'd shield.

Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity.
Archange!! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,

Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then sullen Winter hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;To shuddering want's unmantled bed, Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.-

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds:

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh winds of winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.

Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim, fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,

No bounds to human woe.*

This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

THE

SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had

low'r'd,

And the centinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpow'r'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn-
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE

TURKISH LADY.

"TWAS the hour when rites unboly Call'd each Paynim voice to pray'r, And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rosa;

Ev'n a captive's spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an eastern lady bright:

She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and lov'd an English knight.

Tell me, captive, why in anguish 'Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, 'Where poor Christians as they languish

'Hear no sound of sabbath bell?"