SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

I.

SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes,

Gently o'er my Edwy fly!

Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

II.

I have cover'd him with rushes,

Water-flags, and branches dry.

Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!

My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

III.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken;

Fastly closed is his eye;

Paler is his cheek, and chiller

Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed

All along where the salt waves sigh.

IV.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?

Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die.

Thou bid'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

V.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,
On thy breast I'll lay my head,
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge,
And our shroud the waters spread;
The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat,

Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG

TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, Spirit of the spangled night!
woo thee from the watch-tow'r high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song -
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,

But sweeter far the solemn calm,

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my ev'ning song.

And I have hail'd the grey morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,

And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

Aerial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man.

And when the blust'ring winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-ton'd winds, the moaning sea, The whisp❜ring of the boding trees,

The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON:

Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.