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COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;
Come let us seek the dewy lawns,

And watch the early lark arise;
While nature clad in vesture gay,
Hails the lov'd return of day.

Our flocks that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale;
And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noon-tide heat.
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum;
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,

To these sweet heights again we'll come;
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play
A solemn vesper to departing day.



SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight;
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song;

And Superstition's gentle terrors come,

See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!

See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My flågeolet, and as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors,
Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep;

And 'mid the dreary solitude serene,

Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven and weep.



Written at Midnight.


HENCÉ away vindictive thought!

Thy pictures are of pain;

The visions through thy dark eye caught,

They with no gentle charms are fraught,

So prithee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,

Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?


Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?
Is this thy new delight?

Pale visitant. It is not thine

To keep thy sentry through the mine,

The dark vault of the night;

"Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye,

The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.


Go thou and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas;

And as reclining on his helm,

Sadly he marks the starry realm,

To him thou mayst bring ease;

But thou to me

Art misery,

So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow flee.


And Memory pray what art thou?

Art thou of pleasure born?

Does bliss untainted from thee flow?

The rose that gems thy pensive brow,

Is it without a thorn?

With all thy smiles,

And witching wiles,

Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.


The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,

While I in vain, capricious sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclos'd eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.



I. 1.

MANY there be who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking care,
Green-ey'd grief, and dull despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor, and with equal breath; Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

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