So longing for thy vales and vernal shades,

We leave thy towers, domes, spires, and colonnades— Thy temples, thy pagodas, thy gay parks,

With all thy fleet-wing'd throng of stately barks;-
Thy countless paragons of pomp and pride,

And sail 'neath thy rude arches o'er the tide ;
Where light keels urged by bending oars sweep

past,

Fleet as the sea-mew through the summer blast!
Pass Chelsea's Home of war-worn men who soar

On fancy's wings, and fight their battles o'er;
Till mooring at thy Paradise so green

We hail thee, Richmond,-Nature's fairy Queen!
Ascend thy hill, where foliage meets our eyes
The freshest hued that swings beneath the skies!
A landscape richly spreading far away,

V

Which Turner's powers, can genuinely pourtray!"

Here, as I lay beneath an aged elm,
That waved in æther its tall-tufted helm,
A patriarch came with flowing silvery hair,
Bared his high brow, and gazed with ravish'd air!
And as he scanned the enchanting scene below,
Where winding Thames is gently seen to flow,

With moving lips he seem'd to sing or say-
In gratitude, this soul-felt simple lay.*

Fair Richmond! sweet Eden of nature and spring! With joy undiminished I gaze upon thee,

As often in youth, when I heard thy birds sing Sweet carols of bliss from each blossoming tree. Since then I have wandered through many a clime; Have sailed o'er the bosom of many a sea,

And though I have parted with childhood and prime, My bosom grows young while I gaze upon thee!

I have been where the Sun in luxuriance shines,
And clasps the round earth in his brightest embrace;
But there the soul sickens, the bosom repines,
Till haply each wandering step we retrace!
Now, Richmond, I breathe 'mid thy verdure so green!
The pride of the World at a distance I see.—
In all my long pilgrimage ne'er have I been

In a spot that inspired me with pleasure like thee!

When finished, in his eye-lid shone a tear

Which said my Country, thou art still most dear!"

So might he sigh and tardily return ;—

The lamp of life was fading in its urn;

He deemed, perhaps this was his latest view,
And inly wept to bid his death-adieu!

Here Thomson tuned his "Seasons," and here Gray'
Pour'd forth the spirit of his rural lay ;-

Here Pope-the moral poet of his age-
Penn'd to the world his philosophic page.—
With all the relics of these men strewn round,
Who would not weep to leave such sacred ground!

Distance is partial Blindness, for we feel
A Stygian languor o'er our bosoms steal,
When those we love are sadly far away,

And cannot hear what we desire to say.
Oh! when our hearts think tenderly of home ;—
Of all the valleys we have loved to roam ;—
Of all the friends that gladdened up our eye;-
Of all the streams that leap in beauty by ;—
Of all the youthful joys that charm'd the child ;—
Of all the spots where beauty blushes mild;—
The whole arcana of our melting mind

Is dark and dismal as the really Blind!

Thus strongest breasts take longest time to burst,

And truly feel this mental sorrow worst;

The weakly willed soon wash away their fears,

In a hot flood of fast-distilling tears!

So Byron felt, when on a distant strand,
Those pains which few are fit to understand;
And from the shadowy regions of his mind,
Wept for the clime he left with scorn behind!

On a far distant shore, where no loved one was nigh
To weep o'er his woes or to kindly condole,
Lay he, who had blazed like a comet on high,

And brightened an Empire with beams of his soul ! How hopeless, how cheerless creeps life's ebbing tide, When sadly bereft of its kindred tear,

And how wildly was bursting that bosom of pride, When he cried, "My child, Ada, O would you were here!"

He had parted, half frantic, with friendship and home;
Despair and disdain stung his sensitive breast,
And he long'd like a rudderless vessel to roam,
Which spurning the shore, lets the wind do the rest.

Yet 'midst all this apathy wearing his heart,

There still lived a blossom he clung to sincere, And louder he cried, ere his soul did depart― "My Sorrows were less if my Ada were here!"

He died, and the Grecian bent low to the earth;
A nation of strangers thus honour'd his name,

And

put a full pause to their commerce and mirth, With hearts over-awed by his greatness and fame! Yet ere the sad soul left its prison of clay—

Ere the silver strings broke and the last throb was o'er, Again he exclaim'd in a voice of dismay—

“My Ada! O God! shall I see thee no more ?”

Thus wept the Bard-'Twas distance made him blind To all the charms his passions left behind.— Let calumny now hide its hydra head— God is the proper Critic of the Dead!

So sleep and midnight close our beaming eyes, And darkness shrouds the ocean, earth, and skies; In dreams, perchance, our fancy, joy may find; But still we see no better than the Blind!