Our lives are similar, our fates the same; How vain are riches, how fantastic fame! For born a snail, a peasant, or a prince, One certain destiny awaits us, since Or great, or rich, or poor, too true the truth, Time gnaws the heart-strings with unceasing tooth. Why should I envy, then, the wayward world, The vicious prosperous, or the courtier earled? A mite of joys and complement of cares, The humbler with the nobler equal shares. Were it not empty to have wished myself The murdered Bourbon, or the crazed Guelf? It is not in magnificence to save From worldly evil or inglorious grave; Else had that corse St. Helena inhumes, Forever lived, or died for statelier tombs.

XXI. THE BUTTERFLY.
[Courier. Charleston.]

THE Butterfly seemed to the ancients, the soul,
As it left its frail covering behind;
And spurning the worm, and its earthly control,
It soared with the freedom of mind.

Apt emblem, indeed, is the grovelling worm,
Of the sordid pursuits of this earth;
It dies, and the light and the rich penciled form
Of the butterfly starts into birth.

Thus man, in his mortal enclosure confined,
Stoops downward nor dreams of above;

'Till his spirit, released, on the heavenward wind, Ascends to the mansions of love.

XXII. REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD. [Journal. Portsmouth.]

I STAND among the dark grey stones;
No living thing is near;

Beneath me are the mouldering bones
Of those who once were here.

And here, perhaps, they mused like me;
They felt that life was flying;
And knew that they were soon to be
The dust around me lying.

A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER. 119

Like me, they felt that sense was nought,
That passion was a dream,

That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught,
Must sink beneath the stream.

Yet sense and passion held them slaves,
They lost their golden morning;
And gliding onward to their graves,
Left nothing but a warning.

Perhaps, like them, I too shall go,

Nor heed my coming doom;
And every trace of me below
Be swept into the tomb.

Oh God of mercy, make me know
The gift which thou hast given;
Nor let me idly spend it so,

But make it fit for heaven.

XXIII. A DYING MOTHER TO HER ERRING DAUGHTER.

[Courier. Charleston.]

I CALLED for thee to bless thee-once I thought

Thou would'st have soothed this bleeding, broken heart:

A daughter's blessed consolation brought,

And ere the ebbing drops did all depart, I hoped to see thee on the shore of life,

Where I would linger for thy sweet farewell,
And dying, bless in thee a virtuous wife,

Then yield me to the flesh-dissolving cell.
I wept before thou wast, that thou might'st be ;
And yet I leave thee, and I cannot weep;
I waked with joy to guard thy infancy;
Now all I hope for is unbroken sleep.
Thou wast my first, my last, my only child; .
How happy was I, having only thee;
The treachereus favour murdered as it smiled;

I could have wished for more-unconscious me !
I beg thy pardon--'twas the flush of shame,

That mantling o'er this frozen cheek of mine, Called forth the accents of unwilling blame

Thou hast my pardon, daughter! give me thine. Come, let me bless thee, with my last, last kiss ;

These cold, cold lips inhaled thy infant breath, They hailed thee virtuous, with extatic bliss,

They bless thee fallen, in the pangs of death.

XXIV. THE LUNATIC GIRL.
[From the same.]

'Twas on a moonshine night like this, we took our last farewell; And as he gave his parting kiss, I felt my bosom swell; He said, "Adieu, my Caroline," but I said not a word; Yet never heart was fond, like mine-how wild that dark bush stirred !

The moon was round, the moon was bright, the moon was rising high;

It was just such a pleasant night, and he was standing by; The sweet bird sung his roundelay, he mocked me all night long;

'Tis winter, and he 's flown away, or I should hear his song.

The moon looks down upon the spring-she cannot melt it, though;

The pretty bird has spread his wing, he does not love the snow; The winds blew hard-they say, at sea, such winds will raise a

storm;

I wish my love was here by me-my heart would keep him

warm.

I have a hat of straw for thee-I wove it and I wept,
To think thou wert so far at sea, and I the toy have kept;
I made a basket, which I filled, with lillies, to the brim;
But plucking them, their beauty killed, and so I thought of him.

They say the moon loves such as I-her love is very cold;
She floats so softly through the sky, I'd take her down, and fold
My cloak around her snowy face, and warm her on my heart-
O! no--she needs a warmer place-how could we ever part!

What can my heart have done, to make me love so much the moon?

My fingers are so cold, they ache-i shall be frozen soon;

I would not love my lover 60-)
-my tears are never dry;

I hear him call, and I must go-and so, sweet moon, good-bye.

'Twould shock thy manly pride, perhaps,
That buoyant, e'en in slumber,
Sees each remaining hour elapse,
Anxious the last to number.

'Twould pain thy filial heart to find,
A mother nigh thee, kneeling,
More than the dreary death-like wind,
O'er yon cold ocean stealing.

Then sleep, adventurous boy, and live
Still reckless of my sorrow,-
Kind heaven will aid my tongue to give
A firm adieu, to-morrow.

Yes--I will say, adieu to thee,
With scarce a sigh of sadness,
Though while I speak, despair should be,
Driving my heart to madness.

And when afar the ship is borne,
That wafts thee o'er the billow,
I'll seek that vacant couch, and mourn
To mark its lonely pillow.

But hark! I hear a distant cry,

To deck--to danger-warning,
And now the signal-flag on high,

Streams to the breeze of morning.
I go may that eternal friend,
Who sees my sad devotion,
Restore thee, when thy wanderings end,
Unsullied from the ocean.

XXVI. THE LAST REPOSE.
[Daily Advertiser. Philadelphia.]

YE dead! ye dead! your rest is sweet, from dreamy trouble free,
The labouring heart forgets to beat, beneath the alder tree;
O gladly, 'neath the grassy turf, the care-worn would recline,
Or 'neath the wave, where fairy hands bedeck the lowly shrine.
Ye dead! ye dead! he comes! he comes! and he that woke to

weep,

Shall bosom every secret ill, where ye long vigils keep.

Ye solitary relics! pent, in earth, to earth a prey,
Ye voiceless lips! how eloquent, to me, is your decay;
O sweet the consecrated soil, where pilgrims cease to roam,

Where fainting mortals end their toil, and misery finds a home;

L

And sweet the couch, where coral wreaths, deep in the surging brine,

In ocean's dark unfathomed caves, the sleeping dust entwine. Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep, when tempests rode the cloud,

Or when the night-star paled the deep, the deep became their shroud ;

Think not, for these, who press that bed, no seemly knell is rung, Think not, no rites embalm the dead, nor holy hymn is sung: Heard ye net on the midnight wave, when whispered anthems

stole ?

'Twas, o'er the seaboy's early grave, a requiem for his soul.

Dear to the shipwreck'd is the port, where on a stormless sea, His barque rides safe from every gale, from shoals and quick

sands free;

Dear to the wanderer is the star, that points his doubtful way, That cheers and guides him when, afar, his faltering footsteps stray;

And dear the hour when I, this head, may pillow on its rest,
When I, amid the thronging dead, shall be a welcome guest;
O, dear to me that last repose, where 1, this wasting form
May shelter 'neath the opening rose, that knows no wintry

storm.