ADDRESS.

YE parents who read, do not deem,
The tale we unfold is a dream,

But pause and reflect when began
In you, with the dawning of sense,
Those colors, whose stamp so intense,

Have marked, and still bias the man!

Though form may be varied by art,
Each impulse imbibed in the heart

Is true as the steel to the pole;
Whatever your voyage or designs,
To the point of attraction inclines
Th' imperishable magnet of soul.

And learn, when reviewing your trust,
To stamp good impressions at first,

With honour and virtue enchased;

That when the world's furnace is passed,
The figures shall hold their first cast,
Case-hardened, and polished, and graced.

B

CONFESSIONS OF CUTHBURT,

A BALLAD.

I.

A tender and beautiful maid

In tribute my bosom first laid;

Seven years in her love passed away,

But o'er the wide sea when I went,

But Love keeps no dial of time,

His calendar is but a rhyme,

You either may whistle or sing;

An hour, or a day, or a year,

In loving will equal appear,

So rapid and light is his wing.

III.

The maid that has love once enjoyed,
Is pained till she fill up the void-

The bosom that's melting and kind,

Has not in reserve a hard part,

To hold on the anchor of heart

To drift she seems wholly inclined.

IV.

O how my warm hopes were depressed!
How barren and desert my breast!
Returning, such coldness to meet!
'Twas then that I madly forswore

The wayward fair sex evermore

But vows and harsh feelings were fleet.

V.

Yet warmed both by anger and pride,

I strove my distraction to hide,

With patience the torture endured

Oft numbers suspended its rage,
Oft kindness and friendship assuage-

Such wounds may be balsamed, not cured!

VI.

Yet woman alone can dismiss

The clouds that envelope our bliss-
Fair Dorothy blossomed with charms;

She cunningly guessed my disease,
And roused all her ardor to please,

Till a captive I fell in her arms.

VII.

Full well to her genius was known,
To seize on the vacated throne,

Before had subsided surprise;

Ere the wound was declining to smart, Preventing a void in the heart,

By friendship, or love in disguise.

VIII.

In the mist of our sorrows reclined,
We brood with intenseness of mind,
Nor mark how deceivers beset;
While they on their purpose intent,
With looks of love beamingly bent,
Wind round us the mesh of their net!