The Rhode Island Republican

POETRY.

To the editor of the National Intelligencer.

SIR,

Time and chance have thrown into my hands some agreeable visions of the Poetick Muse. Some are indigenous wild flowers, and others highly cultivated exoticks, gathered on trans-atlantic shores; and together form a fragrant wreath, distinguished by the brilliancy as well as the harmony of the colouring. Few of them have been published here, I believe; and several would have wasted their sweetness on the desart air had I not cherished them. That their fragrance may be generally diffused, I send them to the National Intelligencer, claiming for them no distinction, save only that when you cull one, you shall say, "From Emma's Wreath."

EMMA.

Banks of Potomac, 1811.

LINES FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE SOUTH.

Soft Cherub of the southern breeze,
On! thou whose voice I love to hear,
When, lingering through the rustling trees,
When lengthened sighs it sooths mine ear:
Oh! thou whose fond embrace to meet,
The young Spring all enamour'd flies,
And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,
And pours on thee her laughing eyes:
Thou at whose call the light fays start,
That silent in their hidden bower
Lie pencilling with tenderest art
The blossom thin, and infant flower
Soft Cherub of the southern breeze.
Oh! if aright I tune the reed
Which thus thine ear would hope to please,
By simple lay and humble meed;
And if aright with anxious zeal,
My willing hands this Bower have made.
Still let this Bower thine influence feel,
And be its gloom thy favourite shade!
For thee of all the Cherub train,
Alone my votive muse would woo,
Of all that skim along the main,
Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue;
Of all that slumbered in the grove,
Or playful urge the gossamer's flight
Or down the vale or streomlet move,
With whisper soft, and pinion light.
I court thee, through the glimmering air,
When morning springs from slumbers still,
And, waving bright his golden hair,
Stands tiptoe on yon eastern hill.
I court thee, when at noon reclined,
I watch the murmuring insect throng
In many an airy spiral wind,
Or silent climb the leaf along
I court thee when the flowrets close,
And drink no more receding light,
And when calm eve to soft repose
Sinks on the bosom of the night
And, when beneath the moon's pale beam,
Alone mid shadowy rocks I roam,
And waking visions round me gleam,
Of beings, and of worlds to come.
Smooth glides with thee my pensive hour,
Thou warm'st to life my languid mind,
Thou cheer 'st a frame with genial power,
That drops in every ruder wind.
Breathe, Cherub! breathe! once soft and warm,
Like thine the gale of Fortune blew.
How has the desolating storm
Swept all I gazed on from my view!
Unseen, unknown, I wait my doom,
The haunts of men-indignant flee,
Hold to my heart a listless gloom,
And joy but in the Muse and Thee.