Homeward she drives before the favoring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound.
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas;
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils, so many dangers, past,
To view the port desired, he only knows
Who on the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tossed, a-weary of his watery way,

And watched, all anxious, every wind that blows.
WESTBURY, 1799.

XX.

FAREWELL, my home, my home no longer now,
Witness of many a calm and happy day!
And thou, fair eminence, upon whose brow
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray,
Farewell! These eyes no longer shall pursue
The western sun beyond the farthest height,
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head,
As from this western window dear I lean,
Listening, the while I watch the placid scene,
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell, dear home, where many a day has passed
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last!
WESTBURY, 1799.

MONODRAMAS.

SCENE.

SAPPHO.

The Promontory of Leucadia.

THIS is the spot: 'tis here, tradition says,

That hopeless Love, from this high, towering rock,
Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death.

Oh, 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head
Swims at the precipice! — 'tis death to fall!

Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convulsed.

To die, to be at rest,

oh pleasant thought! Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still, And the wild tempest of the passions hushed In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseased By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold!

Presiding Powers, look down! In vain to you I poured my earnest prayers; In vain I sung your praises, chiefly thou,

Venus! ungrateful goddess, whom my lyre
Hymned with such full devotion. Lesbian groves,
Witness how often, at the languid hour
Of summer twilight, to the melting song
Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian maids,
Who hear, with downcast look and flushing cheek,
That lay of love, bear witness! and ye youths,
Who hang enraptured on the impassioned strain,
Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart
Sinks in the deep delirium! And ye too,
Ages unborn! bear witness ye how hard
Her fate who hymned the votive hymn in vain!
Ungrateful goddess! I have hung my lute
In yonder holy pile; my hand no more
Shall wake the melodies that failed to move
Obdurate Phaon; yet, when rumor tells
How from Leucadia Sappho cast herself,
A self-devoted victim, he may melt
Too late in pity, obstinate to love.

Oh, haunt his midnight dreams, black Nemesis, Whom, self-conceiving in the inmost depths

*

Of Chaos, blackest Night, long laboring, bore,
When the stern Destinies, her elder brood,

And shapeless Death, from that more monstrous

birth

Leapt shuddering, haunt his slumbers, Nemesis!
Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart,

-

* Οὔ τινι κοιμηθεῖσα θεὰ τέκε ΝΥΞ ἐρεβεννή. — HESIOD.

Till, helpless, hopeless, Heaven-abandoned wretch,
He too shall seek beneath the unfathomed deep
To hide him from thy fury.

How the sea

Far distant glitters, as the sunbeams smile
And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast!
Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn
His votary's sorrows. God of day, shine on!
By man despised, forsaken by the gods,

I supplicate no more.

How many a day,

O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams

Delighted have I plunged, from the hot sun

Screened by the o'erarching grove's delightful

shade,

And pillowed on the waters! Now the waves

Shall chill me to repose.

Tremendous height!

Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs
Support me. Hark, how the rude deep below
Roars round the rugged base, as if it called
Its long-reluctant victim! I will come!
One leap, and all is over!

The deep rest

Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm,
Welcome alike to me! Away, vain fears!
Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live?
Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one,
Thought worse than death!

[She throws herself from the precipice.

OXFORD, 1793.

XIMALPOCA.

THE story of this Mexican king is related by Torquemada in his "Monarquia Indiana,” l. ii. c. 28, and by the Abate Clavigero, "Storia Antica del Messico," t. i. l. iii. p. 199. The sacrifice was not completed; a force sent by his enemy arrived in time to prevent the catastrophe; he was carried off captive, and destroyed himself in prison.

SCENE. The Temple of Mexitli.

SUBJECTS! friends! children! I may call

dren,

For I have ever borne a father's love

you chil

Towards you. It is thirteen years since first
You saw me in the robes of royalty,

Since here the multitudes of Mexico

Hailed me their king. I thank you, friends, that now, In equal numbers and with equal love,

You come to grace my death.

For thirteen years,

What I have been ye know, that with all care,

That with all justice and all gentleness,

Seeking your weal, I governed. Is there one
Whom I have injured? one whose just redress
I have denied, or baffled by delay?

Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue
Speak shame of me hereafter. O my people!
Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me
The wrath of Heaven.

The wrath is heavy on me.

Heavy! a burden more than I can bear!