THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. "TWAS post-meridian, half-past four, With uplift hands and broken-hearted. Night came, and now eight bells had rung, 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, 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, A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire, And spread his vegetable store, EDWIN AND ANGELINA. Around, in sympathetic mirth, But nothing could a charm impart, 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, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "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, "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. |