THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

"TWAS post-meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At six she linger'd on the shore,

With uplift hands and broken-hearted.
At seven, while taughtening the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy;
At eight we all got under weigh,
And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

Night came, and now eight bells had rung,
While careless sailors, ever cheery,
On the mid-watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary.

I, little to their mirth inclined,

While tender thoughts rush'd on my fancy, And

my warm sighs increased the wind, Look'd on the moon, and thought of Nancy!

And now arrived that jovial night,

When every true-bred tar carouses ; When, o'er the grog, all hands delight To toast their sweethearts and their spouses. Round went the can, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes fill'd each fancy;

And when, in turn, it came to me,

I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy!

"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring,

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

"Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far, in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart,
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest: “And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep!
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep!

"And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.