of her commerce and navigation. Tradition

that an immense forest formerly occupied the site of the metropolis. Episode of a

Druid, supposed to have taken refuge in that

forest, after the expulsion of the order from

Mona.

THE

GENIUS OF THE THAMES.

PART I.

THE woods are roaring in the gale,

That whirls their fading leaves afar;

The crescent moon is cold and pale,

And swiftly sinks the evening star.

High on this mossy bank reclined

I listen to the eddying wind,

While Thames impels, with sinuous flow,

His silent-rolling stream below;

And darkly waves the giant oak,

That broad, above, its stature rears;

On whose young strength innocuous broke

The storms of unrecorded years.

Ye phantoms of enraptured thought,

By wild-inspiring fancy taught,

That oft the care-worn mind employ

In paths of visionary joy!

Oh! bring again your genial aid,

In all your former charms arrayed,

As when you came, with life and love

The day-dreams of my youth to bless,

And led my sportive steps to rove

Through fairy-worlds of happiness.

Then, while the cloudless morning smiled

Along the flower-enamelled shore,

I watched the waves, that, circling wild,

Passed onward, and returned no more: And when the hollow-murmuring gale

Despoiled the treasures of the wood,

I loved to see the dry leaf sail,

Light-eddying down the silver flood.

By youth, and hope, and fancy blest,

The darkening thought ne'er touched my breast'

That all my promised joys should fly,

Swift as those waves were hastening by,

And fancy's golden dreams be past,

Like leaves on the autumnal blast!

All hail, ye breezes, loud and drear,

That peal the death-song of the year!

Your rustling pinions waft around

A voice, that breathes no mortal sound,

And in mysterious accents sings

The flight of time, the change of things.

The seasons pass, in swift career:

Storms close, and zephyrs wake, the year:

The streams roll on, nor e'er return

To fill again their parent urn;

But bounteous nature, kindly-wise,

Their everlasting flow supplies.

Like planets round the central sun,

The rapid wheels of being run,