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Reviewing Life's eventful page;
The little lines of yesterday.
She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! In every nerve he felt her blest controul ! What pure and white-winged agents of the sky, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet? Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!
Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Till thro' a vista’s moonlight-chequered shade, Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, (Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) An antique mansion burst in awful state, A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Nor paused he there. The master of the scene Saw his light step imprint the dewy green; And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest, Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed.
He wore the rustic manners of a Squire;
Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power !
Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind: And each, with glowing energy pourtrayed, The far-famed triumphs of the field displayed ; Usurped the canvass of the crowded hall, And chased a line of heroes from the wall. There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And many a smile and many a story drew! High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung, And their fantastic branches wildly flung. How would he dwell on the vast antlers there! These dashed the wave, those fanned the mountain-air. All, as they frowned, unwritten records bore Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.
But why the tale prolong?-His only child,
Had won his soul; and rapturous Fancy shed
When Evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue,
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed,
The wild deer, starting thro' the silent glade, With fearful
their various course surveyed. High hung in air the hoary goat reclined, His streaming beard the sport of every wind; And, while the coot her jet-wing loved to lave, Rocked on the bosom of the sleepless wave; The eagle rushed from Skiddaw's purple crest, A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest.
And now the moon had dimmed with dewy ray The few fine flushes of departing day. O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung, And her broad lights on every mountain flung; When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew, And to the surge consigned the little crew. All, all escaped-but ere the lover bore His faint and faded JULIA to the shore, Her sense had fled !-Exhausted by the storm, A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form; Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired; 'Twas life's last spark—it fluttered and expired!
The father strewed his white hairs in the wind, Called on his child—nor lingered long behind: And FLORIO lived to see the willow
wave, With many an evening-whisper, o'er their grave. Yes, Florio lived-and, still of each possessed, The father cherished, and the maid caressed!
For ever would the fond enthusiast rove,
But is Her magic only felt below?
Each scene of bliss revealed, since chaos fled,