this soil the social virtues live,
Like its own forest trees, unprun'd and free--
At least there is one welcome here for me:
A breast that pillowed all my sorrows past,
And waits my coming now, and lov'd me first and last.

XCI.
It binds my Eastern to my Western home;
Then let me banish thoughts that sad would be:
Not like a leaf-borne insect on the foam,
But like a bark upon a glorious sea--
A little bark, perchance, yet firm withal,
'Midst bursting breakers that shall not appal--
I'll bide the coming of a brighter day,
Or, to the far off West, pass, like the past, away.

FINIS.

NOTES.

NOTE I.

_"The Emigrant, or Reflections," &c._

Mr. Hammond, in the notice which he was so kind as to take of this
POEM, suggested the alteration of the title from "Reflections" to
"Reveries." In retaining the first title, I do not do so because I
think it best, but merely because it was the first title, and the one
under which the extracts were given.

It seems to the author, if he may dare to hazard the remark, that the
stanza in which he has attempted to write, has advantages over even
the Spenserean stanzas. He understands the latter to be that in which
the Fairy Queen, from whose author it takes its name--Beattie's
Minstrel, Thompson's Castle of Indolence, Byron's Childe Harold, &c.
&c., are written. The following is a stanza of it, from Childe
Harold:

The starry fable of the Milky Way
Has not thy story's purity; it is
A constellation of a sweeter ray,
And sacred nature triumphs more in this
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss
Where sparkle distant worlds. Oh! holiest nurse!
No drop of that clear spring its way shall miss
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
With life, as our free souls rejoin the Universe.

Here, the reader will perceive that, in a stanza of nine lines, there
is a necessity for the second, the fourth, the fifth, and the seventh
lines to rhyme together; and that the sixth, eighth and ninth lines
must, also, rhyme together. To make the stanza correct, with these
complicated embarrassments of rhyme, must not only cause great
trouble, sometimes, to the easiest versifier, but to succeed in doing
so, critically, he must often sacrifice a happy expression, a striking
phrase, or a beautiful line. "Words are things," says Mirabeau; and,
to the poet, they are things of potency. They are a