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More mournful then each falling surge I heard, Then dropp'd the stagnant tear upon my beard. Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar At midnight, “Thou shalt see thy son no more!' Now thrice twelve moons through the mid

heavens have roli’d, And many a dawn, and slow night have I told; And still, as every weary day goes by, A knot recording on my line I tie * ; But never more, emerging from the main, I see the stranger's bark approach again. Has the fellstorm o'erwhelm'd him? Has its sweep Buried the bounding vessel in the deep? Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain ? Upon his father did he call in vain ? Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child !

Oh! I shall never, never hear his voice; The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice; But faint and weary I shall meet the morn, And mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn.

The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud, O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd ; Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove; The fisher carols in the winding cove;

* I find by referring to the book that I have here made a mistake, which I hope the reader will pardon. The knots were tied at the time of Le Boo's departure, and one untied every, moon by the disconsolate father. There is a very interesting relation on this subject in Dixon's Voyage round the World, who, some years afterwards, sailing near the Pelew Islands, observed a person on shore making signs to the vessel, whom we have reason to suppose from subsequent accounts to have been the unfortunate father of Le Boo.' Captain Dixon at the time was ignorant of every circnmstance relating to this interesting story, with which Mr. Keate concludes bis account of the Pelew Islands.

And light canoes along the lucid tide
With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide.
I linger on the desert rock alone,
Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.



FAREWELL, oh native Spain ! farewell for ever!

These banish'd eyes shall view thy coasts no


A mournful presage tells my heart that never

Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hush'd are the winds, while soft the vessel sailing

With gentle motion ploughs the’unruffled main,
I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven

Still do the spires, so well beloved, appear.
From yonder craggy point the gale of even

Still wafts my native accents to mine ear. Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gaily

singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing

Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes. Ah! happy swain; he waits the accustom'd hour

* When twilight gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,

And shares the feast his native fields supply.

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Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive

him With honest welcome and with smile sincere: No threatening woes of present joys bereave him;

No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Ah! happy swain ! such bliss to me denying,

Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me who, from home and Spain an exile flying,

Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.
No more mine ear shall list the well known ditty

Sung by some mountain girl who tends her goats,
Some village swain imploring amorous pity,

Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes. No more my arms a parent's fond embraces,

No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory

traces, To sultry skies and distant climes I go. Where Indian suns engender new diseases,

Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,

The yellow plague and madding blaze of day. But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,

To die by peacemeal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,

And brain delirious with the daystar's rage Can make me know such grief as thus to sever,

With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,

And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber, .

Recall my native country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number

Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind ! Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers,

The river on whose banks a child I play'd, My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers, Each much regretted wood and well known

glade ; Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,

Thy scenes, which I am doom'd no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,

And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires ;

Night speeds apace her empire to restore ! Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires,

Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water's

motion! Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main ! So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,

Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain. Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,

Fresh blows the gale, and high the billowsswell: Far shall we be before the break of morning : Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!



Ye hills of my country, soft fading in blue;
The seats of my childhood, for ever adieu !
Yet not for a brighter your skies I resign,
When my wandering footsteps revisit the Rhine:
But sacred to me is the roar of the wave
That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave;
Where the blasts of the trumpets for battle combine,
And the heart was laid low that gave rapture to


for me;

Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguiled,
Your uplands I leave for the desolate wild;
For nature is nought to the eye of despair
But the image of hopes that have vanish'd in air:
Again, ye fair blossoms of flower and of tree,
Ye shall bloom to the morn, though ye bloom not

Again your lone wood-paths that wind by the
Be the haunt of the lover-to hope—and to dream.
But never to me shall the summer renew
The bowers where the days of my happiness flew;
Where my soul found her partner, and thought to

bestow The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe! Too faithful recorders of times that are pass’d, The Eden of Love, that was ever to last! Once more may soft accents your wild echoes fill, And the young and the happy be worshippers still. To me ye are lost! but your summits of green Shall charm through the distance of many a scene,

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