we pass, th' advancing spray
Shall kiss thy side of glossy gray;--
Oh! fairer than the ocean foam
Is that cold maid for whom we roam!
Her cheek is like the apple flower
Or summer heavens, at evening hour,
While, in her tender bashfulness,
She starts and files my love's excess,
Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail,
As ocean when the sun is pale.
On, on! until my longing sight,
Can fix upon that dwelling white,
Beside a verdant bank that braves
The ocean's ever-sounding waves;--
There, all alone, she loves to sing,
Watching the silver sea-mew's wing.
In crowded halls, my spirit flies
To wait upon her; and wasting sighs
Consume my nights; where'er I turn
For her I pant, for her I burn,
Who, like some timid, graceful bird,
Shrinks from my glance and fears my word.
I faint; my glow of youth is gone;
Sleepless at night and sick at morn,
My strength departs; I droop, I fade,
Yet think upon that lonely maid,
And pity her, the while I pine
That she should spurn a love like mine
_This_, Madoc took the harp to play;
Cold in the earth Prince Hoel lay;
And Llaian listened, fain to speak
But wept as if her heart would break.

In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was
received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her
coffee estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:

When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc,"
such is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of
its delineations. Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and
canes of that island where repose the bones of Columbus,) the
song of Prince Hoel attached itself to my thoughts, and has
been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song may be found in
the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre in which
it now appears must rather injure than improve the _belle
nature_ of the original. Still I wish it to be published, as
coming from my hand; because it gives me an opportunity of
expressing, in some degree, my unqualified admiration of its
composer. Well may he be called THE POET AND HISTORIAN OF THE
NEW WORLD. To justify this appellation, one has only to look
at Madoc and the History of Brazil. I have heard, from a
friend, of a rumor that Southey is ill; and, as it is feared,
irrecoverably.

This intelligence is unexpected as it is melancholy; for who had
better r