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True to your staid and even port,

Let mad extremes of every sort

With steady scorn be treated;

Nor by art’s modish follies mar

The sweetest, loveliest work by far

That nature has completed :-

For oh! if in the world's wide round

One peerless object may be found,

A something more than human;

The faultless paragon confess'd
May in one line be all express'd, -


Written at Sea.

"Tis night-my Bark is on the, Ocean,

No sound I hear, no sight I see,

Not e'en the darken’d waves whose motion

Still bears me, Fanny, far from thee!

But from the misty skies are gleaming

Two smiling stars that look, my love! As if thine eyes, though veil'd, were beaming

Benignly on me from above.

Good night and bless thee, Fanny dearest!

Nor let the sound disturb thy sleep,

If, when the midnight wind thou hearest,

Thy thoughts are on the distant deep :

Thy Lover there is safe and fearless,

For Heaven still guards and guides my track.

Nor can my dreaming heart be cheerless,

For still to thee 'tis wafted back.

”Tis sweet on the benighted billow,

To trust in Him whom all adore;

'Tis sweet to think that from her pillow

Her prayers for me shall Fanny pour.

The winds, self-lullabied, are dozing,

The winking stars withdraw their light.

Fanny! methinks thine eyes are closing

Bless thee, my love! good night, good night!


Oh, warble not that fearful air !

For sweet and sprightly though it be,

It wakes in me a deep despair

By its unhallow'd gaiety.

It was the last my Fanny sung,

The last enchanting playful strain,

That breathed from that melodious tongue,

Which none shall ever hear again.

From Memory's fount what pleasures past

At that one vocal summons flow;

Bliss which I vainly thought would last

Bliss which but deepens present woe!

Where art thou, Fanny! can the tomb

Have chill'd that heart so fond and warm,

Have turn'd to dust that cheek of bloom

Those eyes of light—that angel form:

Ah no! the grave resigns its prey:

See, see! my Fanny 's sitting there;

While on the harp her fingers play

A prelude to my favourite air.

There is the smile which ever bless'd

The gaze of mine enamour'd eyeThe lips that I so oft have press’d

In tribute for that melody,

She moves them now to sing !-hark, hark !

But ah! no voice delights mine ears :

And now she fades in shadows dark;

Or am I blinded by my tears?

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