waves of Gabia haste,
All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,
Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.

A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,
And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;
Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side,
Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.

Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,
Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,
Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;
Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--

"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?
Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!
Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow
To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?

* * * * *

"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,
When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?
Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?
Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?

"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,
And sleep never visit the place of their bed!
On their children and wives, on their life and their death,
Abide still the curse of an African maid!"

J. C. DENOVAN.

J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a
predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of
war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a
single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to
abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh.
He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he
subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He
died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and
unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours
of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of
Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.

OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!

Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,
And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,
She laments and looks back on the past happy days
When thy presence had left her no object to mourn
Those days that are past,
Too joyous to last,
A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;
No joy now is mine,
In s