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health and happiness. I persuaded myself that Lord Spencer had not meant unkindly; and at all events I owed him the same gratitude that the crane owed to the fox, who had his head in his mouth, and did not bite it off: I therefore mentioned to him, that although I could not conceive why the government should have thought it necessary to proceed so harshly, yet that I was sensible of the handsome manner in which I had been so far conveyed, and hoped it would continue to the end of my voyage. I shall presently state to you with candor, how far it did, and how far it did not.
I was so far indulged during my stay in Falmouth, as to be allowed to walk with my Conductor through the fields, along the rocks; or wherever fancy led. And besides that, the inhabitants of this little town had a certain character of benevolence; that it is remarkable for the simple rustic beauty of its women, there was a circumstance which gave it still more interest in my imagination: for nearly twenty years ago, when full of the ardor of youth, I was proceeding on my first voyage to America, by invitation of my uncle, Colonel Sampson, to inherit a pretty rich estate which he possessed in that county of NorthCarolina which still bears his name, and was put, by adverse winds, into this very port. During several weeks that I was detained, my delight had been to explore the wild beauties of the country. It was in one of my excursions through the same grounds that
my imagination, comparing the present with the past, seemed to have caught its former tone of youth, and I meditated a few Stanzas, which I committed, with my pencil, to writing, as opportunity served. I the tone of youth, because such trifling belongs only, of right, to that season of life. And whatever little talent I might once have had for versifying, I have, since my maturer years, considered the twisting of words as a frivolous pastime. But every thing was now ligitimate that could amuse or dissipate.
HOPE AND THE EXILE.
IN the far verge of Britain's isle,
Captive, on a rocky steep,
Gazing o'er the silent deep.
Behind me lay that Iron land,
Where tyrants hold their gloomy sway;
Where despots smile, and slaves look gay.
Westward, stretch'd the watry waste,
That washes the Columbian shore,
That isle I'm doom'd to see no more.
Farewell ye scenes of smiling youth,
Where memory delights to rove :
By worth, by honor, to my love.
With wings of air, the ardent steed,
Darts from the goal-is lost to sight ;
That can arrest the lapwing's flight.
Swifter is sound to wound the ear ;
Yet where the angry bullet flies,
Fate's work is sped-the victim dies.
The unseen ball, nor beam of light,
So quick as magic Fancy's flight.
The winds their hollow caverns rend,
The swelling waters burst their bounds ;
Against the weight of earthly mounds.
Yet all these elements combin'd,
To rack the globe, have no such force,
From corporal bondage to divorce.
And I in momentary trance,
With fancy's raptur'd eye could see,
Than in whole years when I was free,
For all at once, before mine eye,
A fancy form there did appear,
The earth, or sea, it was not clear.
With graceful step I saw her move,
I felt her charms my heart beguile ; Soft as the breathing lute of love
Her voice-like the young morn her smile.
'Twas not that smile of venom'd dart,
Whose power above all soft controul,
And kindles trouble in the soul.
She was not love and beauty's queen,
But sister likę, so fair, so bright ;) Less fire might in her eyes be seen,
But nothing less of beamy light.
Those Seraph eyes she fix'd on mine,
As she would read them thro' and thro', Yet was their aspect so benign,
That I could dwell upon their view.
Is hopeless love she said thy care,
That here all silent and alone, Thou seem'st to woo the vagrant air,
And to th' unpitying waters moan?
Or by the ruthless hand of fate,
Some friend or kindred hast thou lost, Os been by destiny of late,
In fortune, or in honor, cross'd? Those days, bright nymph! are past and gone
When I with love's hot flame did burn;
But happy love, and kind return.
Whom my sad heart must ever mourn ;
Here am I silent and forlorn.
Some foul ingratitude has then,
The current of thy spirits mov'd ; For nothing grives the souls of 'men
Like base return from those they lov'd.
Or else some lingering disease,
Within thy frame deep-rooted lies ; A vulture on the heart that preys,
Dire source of never ending sighs.
Ingratitude at times, to own,
Must be the fate of all that live;
The false I pity and forgive.
And though the hand of mortal pain,
Bows me beneath its wasting grief ; Ne'er yet in lamentations vain,
Nor idle plaints, I sought relief.
Then for some dark and hidden crime,
Of which thy soul doth now relent: Thou hast been stricken in thy prime,
And doom'd to sorrow and repent !
Oh thou, than spring-time flowers more fair
More beauteous than the rosy morn ; Whose breath embalms the circling air,
Why wast that breath in words of scorn ?
And were I stain'd with crimes so fell,
As silent thought could not endure ; What power, deep art, or magic spell,
Hadst thou the sting of guilt to cure ?
Mine is that power, that magic spell,
To cheat the wretched of his pain, The guilty from the verge of hell,
To raise to heaven, and light, again.