While to my fond adoring eyes her form,

Like a winged shape of brightness on the storm,
Illumed these gloomy wilds; and her radiant eye
Was filled with tears, and her bosom's deep-heaved sigh
Came like a fitful breeze that summer yields,
Fraught with the fragrancy of rose-clad fields?

And was it here that her last vows she spoke? Here from each others arms we tearful broke To meet no more? O, how thy flashing gleams, Remembrance of the past, like painful dreams Come o'er my soul! Could I view thee, Mary, now, How changed wouldst thou appear! But never more Shall I behold that sadly faded brow.

The pangs I suffered for thy sake are o'er ;

Yet they have left a melancholy shade

E'en on life's brightest scenes, like clouds that oft invade The summer sunbeams, which steal faintly through Their misty skirts to drink the noontide dew.

O, mine has been a life of care and pain,
And still I drag misfortune's heavy chain ;
Still am I doomed to heave despair's deep sigh,-
Hope is delusion, grief reality!

One friend I had, that o'er life's sickening gloom
Shone like a transient star: and the dark tomb
On him hath closed for aye; or ere this hour,
His foot had pressed the threshold of my bower.

He, too, for ever from my sight is torn,
The ocean surge hath to his green grave borne

The gallant soldier. In some western isle,
Where on thy turf the flowers of summer smile
With bloom perpetual, thou dost dreamless sleep.
In vain I thee bewail, in vain I weep!

I ne'er shall cross the wild Atlantic wave,
Nor roam a pilgrim to that distant shore

Where thou art laid :-the stranger's early grave !
Then peace to thy dust! eternally farewell!

For I shall never, never meet thee more,

'Till with the worm I, too, in darkness dwell!

But from this spot, O let me fly!

For evening reigns, and before my eye
Flit shadows of those I loved so well.-
Away, away, my burning brain

Seems like the sunset glow of the west!
So oft with agonizing pain,

I have parted from those I love the best;
That I would fain in Lethe's stream,
Bid memory quench her latest gleam,
And, plunged in darkness, be at rest!

I have obtained many subscribers here, and two literary and warm-hearted friends in Mr. Welch of Stonehouse, and Mr. Carrington of Dock,* who received me with so much hospitality and kindness, that I cannot express to you how

* Mr. Welch is the author of a very ingenious Theory of the Earth, reconciling the Mosaic account of the creation with modern philosophy. Mr. Carrington is the author of The Banks of Tamar, a poem of great and acknowledged merit; as also of Dartmoor, a poem far surpassing anything ever written on that subject, and possessing legitimate claims to universal patronage,

much I feel indebted to them, while their openhearted and cordial friendship I shall never forget. Mr. Carrington is a true child of the Muses, and possesses the immortal fire of a lofty genius; the world must, ere long, hear of his great poetical talents. I cannot say as much for the author of a new forthcoming History of Cornwall; to further which, Mr. Carrington is translating for him everything connected with it, that is not to be found in his mother tongue. I waited on him for the high honour of having his name added to my list of subscribers; but he could not condescend so far. His haughtiness appeared to me only equalled by his illiberality; "but what is to be expected from one, whose life has been employed in the edifying and enlightening exercitation of rolling pills, spreading plaisters, compounding quack medicines, and fabricating boluses? Who expects the colossal strides of a giant from the puny dimensions of a dwarf, or hopes to see the stately march of the war-horse in the wriggling of a worm?"

Before I quit the west, I intend proceeding as far as Falmouth, from whence I shall return to this place; when you may expect to hear from me again. Till then, my friend, adieu.

SYLVATICUS.

LETTER LXXIX.

From Mr. R. to Sylvaticus.

DEAR SIR,

Plymouth Dock.

I HAVE been anxious the whole of the past week to write respecting your concerns, which to say the least, interest me very much: but professional duties, over which I could have no controul, prevented me till now.

On Monday week I was at Teignmouth and saw Dr. Turton: we conversed about you largely. The Dr. regrets exceedingly that he did not know, had it been only half, the merits of your excellent work; for then he would have paid you every attention, even to the neglect of other business. "When the author presented his book, I bought it," says the Dr. " merely because you desired him to call on me, thinking it money thrown away on one of the numberless class of ephemeral productions that almost daily infest us. It lay on the table neglected four or five days, until I had the curiosity to read two or three

pages, when I was most forcibly struck with the appearance of genius and merit, which we have since found so fully displayed throughout the work. His images and figures are very fine; he has an uncommonly vivid imagination; in short, I consider it one of the very best works that has come out the last forty years. I think I can introduce him to some families of wealth and merit, who would feel honoured in patronising the author of such a work." He also added a desire, that you would write him a note with your address, &c. which I must beg, my dear sir, you will do as soon as possible. The Dr. has canvassed for you, and defended your work; and Mrs. Turton, a very clever lady, has read it twice over.

I hope you are agreeably surprised by the first page of my letter: my mind has been full of writing to you many days. Mr. W. delivered me your letter: I forgot to begin mine with acknowledging it. He told me of the ill reception your work met with from the tasteless parsons at Dartmouth. I cannot describe to you how indiguant I felt, when he told me of their unfeeling conduct; it stamps an indelible disgrace on their stupid characters. But never regard them, or any other conceited blockheads.