LINES TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH SOME ENGLISH FRUITS AND

FLOWERS.

GREEN herbs and gushing springs in some hot waste,

Though grateful to the traveller's sight and taste,

Seem far less fair and fresh than fruits and flowers

That breathe, in foreign lands, of English bowers.

Thy gracious gift, dear Lady, well recalls

Sweet scenes of home,-the white cot's trellised walls-
The clean red garden path-the rustic seat-

The jasmine-covered arbour, fit retreat

For hearts that love repose. Each spot displays
Some long-remembered charm. In sweet amaze

I feel as one who from a weary dream

Of exile wakes, and sees the morning beam
Illume the glorious clouds, of every hue,

That float o'er fields his happy childhood knew.

How small a spark may kindle fancy's flame,

And light up all the past! The very same

Glad sounds and sights that charmed my heart of old,

Arrest me now-I hear them and behold.

Ah! yonder is the happy circle seated

Within the favourite bower! I am greeted

With joyous shouts; my rosy boys have heard

A father's voice-their little hearts are stirred

With eager hope of some new toy or treat,

And on they rush with never-resting feet!

Gone is the sweet illusion-like a scene

Formed by the western vapours, when between The dusky earth and day's departing light,

The curtain falls of India's sudden night.

MENTAL CHANGES.

As o'er the fairest skies

The dream-like shadows steal,

So dim mysterious cares surprize

The heart whose human weal

Would seem secure from aught less bright
Than pleasure's broad congenial light.

As when this outward world

Attracts the mortal eye,

A vapour on the light air curled

Between us and the sky

May make its blue depths cold and dun,

And place in brief eclipse the sun;

So in the realms of mind,

The meanest things have power,

With thoughts as wayward as the wind

When fitful tempests lour,

The loveliest hues of life to cloud,

And Hope's resplendent orb enshroud.

SONNETS-WRITTEN AT SEA.

[FINE WEATHER.]

THE plain of ocean 'neath the crystal air
Its azure bound extends-the circle wide
Is sharply clear,-contrasted hues divide
The sky and water.

Clouds, like hills that wear

The winter's snow-wrought mantle, brightly fair,
Rest on the main's blue marge. As shadows glide
O'er dew-decked fields, the calm ship seems to slide
O'er glassy paths that catch the noon-tide glare
As if bestrown with diamonds. Quickly play

The small crisp waves that musically break
Their shining peaks.—And now, if aught can make
Celestial spirits wing their downward way,
Methinks they glitter in the proud sun's wake,

And breathe a glorious beauty on the day!

[A CALM, AFTER A GALE.]

LIKE mountain-mists that roll on sultry airs,
Unheard and slow the huge waves heave around

That lately roared in wrath. The storm-fiend, bound

Within his unseen cave, no longer tears

The vexed and wearied main. The moon appears,
Uncurtaining wide her azure realms profound
To cheer the sullen night. Though not a sound
Reposing Nature breathes, my rapt soul hears
The far-off murmur of my native streams
Like music from the stars-the silver tone

Is memory's lingering echo. Ocean's zone
Infolds me from the past ;-this small bark seems
The centre of a world-an island lone;

And home's dear forms are like departed dreams!

ON THE FREQUENT COMPLAINT OF A WANT OF

MEMORY.

NOTHING is more common than the confession of a defect of memory, which may be taken as a proof that it is not generally considered one of the nobler faculties of the mind. Men rarely acknowledge, even to themselves, a deficiency in any quality which ranks highly in their own estimation, or which they suppose to be essential to the dignity or grace of their intellectual character. People sometimes complain of the want of extrinsic advantages, such as a large income or a handsome equipage, because these things form no portion of their own moral or mental being. They conceive that they have higher and less equivocal claims to the respect of their fellow creatures; and while railing at Fortune, enjoy a secret consciousness, and sometimes even venture on a pretty open implication, that their merit is deserving of a better fate. Men are discontented with every thing but their own minds and persons. They never complain that nature has made them silly or ill-featured. In some respects what a happy circumstance is that law of our nature by which, with the clearest eyes for the defects of others, we are blinded to our own! The feeble-minded and the deformed in body would shrink into themselves with bitter shame and forlorn despondency, if they were to see their own deficiencies as they appear to others. The perpetual mirror of self-reflection would drive them to despair. It is remarkable that in proportion as nature is niggard in real gifts, she is liberal in those of fancy. Fools and dwarfs are proverbially vain. When we consider how much of the happiness of life depends upon our being well deceived, it is perhaps scarcely

consistent with a humane philosophy to object to the self-com

placency of the meanest human creature in existence, especially as he is in no degree answerable for his natural defects. If we lower a man in his own esteem we not only deprive him of the chief source of consolation amidst the positive ills of life, but render him less capable of a noble sentiment or a generous exertion. It is only when egotism leads to selfishness and arrogance, that it becomes necessary to repress it. The principle, however, of self-approval is so deeply ingrafted in our system, that it is impossible to eradicate it. By terribly severe and caustic handling its growth may be checked for a season, but it cannot be utterly destroyed. The cherished weed shoots out again in defiance of every obstacle, and with renewed force and freshness.

As no man wilfully depreciates his own character in matters which he thinks materially affect its influence over others, the frequent complaint of the want of memory is, as I have already intimated, rather a slight to that faculty than an acknowledgment of its value. People are often ready to resign all pretensions to it for the praise of candour, because they think they can well afford the sacrifice. A weakness in this faculty is not thought any indication of a correspondent weakness in the higher powers of the mind. On the contrary, many persons have a notion that an exact and vigorous memory is generally associated with a feeble judgment and a cold and barren imagination. Pope has sanctioned this opinion in his Essay on Criticism.

“Thus in the soul while memory prevails

The solid power of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play

The memory's soft figures melt away."

Those who have weak memories and who wish to be reconciled to their misfortune, should peruse Montaigne, who is perpetu