FROM PART II.

SWIFTLY the seraph held his onward course,
All undisturbed-(as by the ocean's force,
The gallant ship-when, through the purest sky,
Quickening, but not tumultuous breezes fly-)
Till he descended on a fertile strand,

Where rolling waters softly washed the land.
There dwelt an aged hermit in a cell
Hid in the deep recesses of a dell,

That opened to the sea towards which there flows
A stream that far within the valley rose;

Now softly glittering to the sun's bright ray,
Now madly holding its impetuous way,

Through beetling rocks, that with their summits high,

Look like some old supporters of the sky;
Then softly spreading in a lake so fair,
As if the skies above were sleeping there,-
A second heaven, without a wave to harm,
Or ripple to destroy the holy charm.

Thence softly, swiftly do its waters flee,
And long to meet the loud majestic sea.
Like some good man, whose innocence and truth
Have bid the world conspire against his youth:
Ev'n then, though human passions stir his breast,
His unbent course is t'ward his heavenly rest.

They force him into noise and tumult, still,
For he is peaceful as the smoothest rill;
Which, when it ripples—in that gentle sound,
Is only whispering happiness around.

But when long rolling years have conquered all,
And forced them at the shrine of worth to fall;
Then, peaceful, pure, he lifts an eye of love
(Where all is peace and purity)-above:
Just as a mirror, from its surface bright,
So does his heart reflect celestial light.
But when old age has spread its gloomy cloud,
And gathering winters round his temples crowd,
So he too presses t'ward the unmeasured sea,
The boundless ocean of eternity.

FROM PART III.

MANY a year had pass'd away,
Gone was many a smiling day;
And night, for many a silent hour,
Had worn her silver diadem

That silently proclaimed her power,
And glittered like a radiant gem,
That marks some monarchs dreary sleep

Within the caverns of the deep.

So then it shone, and sailing through
An ocean of celestial blue,

Saw her own brilliance to and fro
Wide dancing o'er the deep below,
Whitening the distant sails that gleam'd
Where sea and sky appeared to meet,
And the old ocean, joyful seem'd
Pressing to wash the Heaven's fair feet.
The bounding vessel skims the tide,
And, o'er Cerulean ocean wide,

Springs, laughing at the waves which pay
Their homage, and then turn away;
Now, foaming, dash against the prow,
And then their crisped heads they bow.
Above, the gallant streamers wave,
The sailors smile to see-their grave
A shriek of horror !—Hark !—it sounds
To the horizons' utmost bounds!
Another shriek !-The wave clos'd o'er,-
They shall not shriek, or struggle more!
Yet one there is, divinely strong, &c.

The last portion of this fragment was written about April, 1818. His beloved mother, who had contributed so much towards the formation of his mind, was delighted with this Tale, and our dear young poet continued it chiefly for her amusement, Soon after he

had completed the thousandth line, an event happened, which threw a deep gloom over us all; any reference to which long filled our eyes with tears, and our hearts with agony; and, at this moment, fills me with unutterable anguish. He never touched the poem again; I believe, never looked at it: his muse rẹmained for a time, and I feared would remain through life,

"Lorn as the hung-up lute that ne'er had spoken "Sweet sounds e'er since its master chord was broken."

THUS, for years, passed life most sweetly away-our affection and comfort, if possible, increasing hourly. The long imbecility, and the death of his maternal grandmother; and the continued bodily infirmities of a most beloved aunt, were the only domestic evils he was called, for a considerable time, to witness. His grandmother, who had been for more than fifty years of her life, distinguished for her great good sense, hospitality, and christian piety, died in February, 1817, at the advanced age of 79. His aunt, (who, though afflicted, yet in such beloved society, and blest with the richest consolations of religion, still enjoyed life) his mother and myself felt a growing delight in our dear and common treasure, who was all that the fondest, the proudest, or even the holiest relatives could wish. Amidst the ten thousand conceivable possibilities or probabilities of his future life, I had, notwithstanding her ill health, generally associated his aunt, and always his mother, in my dreams of earthly bliss. But God, whose "thoughts