The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy

way,

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway— Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks

kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite!
What do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being-well—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What sayst thou-slanderer !-rouge makes thee sick?

And China bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?

Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crimeBut shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch; To worship, not approach, that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and ad

mired,

Murmured thy adoration and retired.

Thou'rt welcome to the town-but why come here

To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round-the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enriched by generous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet:

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

VOL. I.-9

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage

flows

To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the

brow;

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY.

I STAND upon my native hills again,

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer

sky

With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, While deep the sunless glens are scooped between,

Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams un

seen.

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near,
And ever restless feet of one, who, now,