AN ELEGY WRITTEN AT SEA.
Heaven gave the word, Delia! once more farewell,
Ah me! how fleeting all our joys are found;
The pangs I feel thy tender heart can tell,
For pangs like mine thy tender heart must wound.
Snatch’d from thy arms, to distant lands I roam,
And face the horrors of the howling sea;
Far from my long lov’d friends and native home,
And far, my Delia! ah, too far from thee!
No more thy pleasing converse cheers my soul,
And smooths my passage through life’s rugged way;
Thy smiles no more my wonted cares controul,
And give new glories to the golden day.
No more with thee I hail the approach of dawn,
And hand in hand the varied landscape rove;
Where fostering gales invest the dew-bright lawn,
Unlock the garden’s sweets, and fan the grove.
With notes accordant to thy skilful tongue,
No more I seek my doric reed to tune;
No more the tender melody prolong,
And chide the envious hours that fleet too soon.
When sinks in ocean’s bed the source of light,
And darkness drear its raven pinions spread;
Chearless and lone I pass the ling’ring night,
With thoughts congenial to its deepest shade.
Unless, perchance, my weary watchful eyes,
Sleep’s balmy charms no longer can refuse;
Then swift to thee my soul unfetter’d flies,
And each past scene of tenderness renews.
With all that winning grace I see thee move,
That first endear’d thy tender heart to mine;
When soften’d by thy grace of virtuous love,
I led thee, blushing, to the hallow’d shrine.
I see thee too, thou partner of my heart,
With all a mother’s tender feelings blest;
The frequent glance, the kiss, the tear impart,
And press the smiling infant to thy breast.
Eager I haste a parent’s joy to share,
My bosom bounds with raptures felt before;
But swift the soothing vision sinks in air,
Winds howl around, and restless billows roar.
Even now, whilst prompted by the pleasing past,
In artless numbers flows this pensive lay;
The tottering vessel quivers in the blast,
And angry clouds obscure the cheerful day.
Yet why repine, my anxious breast be still,
No human bliss is free from foul alloy;
But, what at present bears the face of ill,
May end in smiling bliss and lasting joy.
Soon may that Power supreme, whose dread command
Can still the tumults of the raging main;
Through paths of danger with unerring hand,
Guide me to thee and happiness again.
In Him, my Delia, then thy trust repose,
’Tis he alone the joyless bosom cheers;
He soothes when absent all our heart-felt woes,
At home our soft domestic scene endears.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.