When they see the broad moon from the summit

ascend,

And their school-house and grove in a blaze.

O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear;
-When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,
Wherever its glories appear,

It gladdens my spirit, it sooths from afar
With tranquil and tender delight,

It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star

Alone in the desert of night.

It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,

For ever and ever gone o'er;

Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss,
They were, but they will be no more.
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain,
That leave such endearment behind?

Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main,
Their twilight still rests on the mind.

Then peace to his ashes who planted these trees!
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,

With simple and lovely magnificence please
All bosoms, and ravish all eyes:

Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame,
Like his own silver trophies, that wave

In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,
And scatter their leaves on his grave.

Ah! thus when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure,

On the mountain of high immortality bloom,
'Midst lightning and tempest secure!

Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,

And nations sit under their shade,

While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,

Aloft in their branches display'd.

Hence dream of vain glory!-the light drop of dew,

That glows in the violet's eye,

In the splendour of morn to a fugitive view,
May rival a star of the sky;

But the violet is pluck'd, and the dew-drop is flown,

The star unextinguished shall shine:

Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,

And the glories of Paradise mine.

THE MOLE-HILL.

TELL me, thou dust beneath my feet,

Thou dust that once hadst breath!

Tell me how many mortals meet
In this small hill of death?

The mole that scoops with curious toil

Her subterranean bed,

Thinks not she ploughs a human soil,

And mines among the dead.

But, O! where'er she turns the ground

My kindred earth I see;

Once every atom of this mound

Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.

Like me these elder-born of clay
Enjoy'd the cheerful light,

Bore the brief burden of a day,
And went to rest at night.

Far in the regions of the morn,
The rising sun surveys
Palmyra's palaces forlorn,
Empurpled with his rays.

The spirits of the desert dwell

Where eastern grandeur shone, And vultures scream, hyænas yell Round Beauty's mouldering throne.

There the pale pilgrim, as he stands, Sees, from the broken wall,

The shadow tottering on the sands,

Ere the loose fragment fall.