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Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE LASS OF GLENESLAN-MILL.

THE laverock loves the dewy light,

The bee the balmy foxglove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
When song and sunshine fill the air:
But I love best the summer moon,
With all her stars, pure streaming still;
For then, in light and love I meet

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The violets lay their blossoms low,
Beneath her white foot, on the plain;
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain.
O might I clasp her to my heart,

And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loath to woo, and long to win,

Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose:
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free,-
They come, my love, they come from thee
O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower.
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from fortune's tree;
And sweeter still, to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine;
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant ight;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Shines like the rainbow through the shower:

Rills murmur'd music, and the stars

Refused to set our heads aboon:

Ye might have heard our beating hearts, Our mixing breaths,-all was so still, Till morning's light shone on her locks,― Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.

Wert thou an idol all of gold,

Had I the eye of worldish care,— I could not think thee half so sweet, Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye, This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,Thine every wish of joy and love, My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!

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O then I see, while seated migh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,-
I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

A WET SHEET AND FLOWING SEA

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,-
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast:
And bends the gallant mast, my boys.
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ehip flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high:
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free,-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark! the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud:
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free.-
While the hollow oak our palace is
Our heritage the sea.

MY AIN COUNTREE.

THE sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.

Oh gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countree.

Oh it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my e'e, But the love I left in Galloway,

Wi' bonnie bairnies three. My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, An' smiled my fair Marie: I've left my heart behind me In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee;
But I'll win back-oh never,
To my ain countree.

I'm leal to the high heaven,
Which will be leal to me,
An there I'll meet ye a' sune
Frae my ain countree.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven: "Ye're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God, "For dwalling out o' heaven!"

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
Oh, what'll she do in heaven?
She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

Thou left me naught to covet ahin',
But took goodness' sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-cold face;
Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-shut eye;

An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

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Yon green hill I'll give thee
Where falcons are flying,
To show me the den where
This bold traitor's lying.
Oh, make me of Nithsdale's
Fair princedom the heiress:
Is that worth one smile of
My gentle Hugh Herries?

The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him;
And safe in my fond arms

I clasp'd and I wound him:
I warn you go not where

My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping;
Behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,
'Mang banks of blae-berries,
I dwell with my loved one,
My gentle Hugh Herries.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

THERE lived a lass in Inverness,

She was the pride of a' the town; Blythe as the lark on gowan-tap,

When frae the nest but newly flown. At kirk she won the auld folks' love,

At dance she was the young men's een; She was the blythest aye o' the blythe, At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.

As I came in by Inverness,

The simmer sun was sinking down; Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,

And she was greeting through the town: The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets, And auld dames crying (sad to see!) "The flower o' the lads of Inverness Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"

She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
And dighted aye her comely ee;
"My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,

At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
Nae tears could ever blin' my ee;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
A dearer ane there couldna be!

"He trysted me o' love yestreen,

Of love-tokens he gave me three; But he's faulded i' the arms o' weir, Oh, ne'er again to think o' me! The forest flowers shall be my bed, My food shall be the wild berrie, The fa' o' the leaf shall cover me cauld, And wauken'd again I winna be."

Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's ee;
Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,

But naked corses, sad to see.

Oh spring is blythesome to the year,

Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;

But oh what spring can raise them up,
That lie on dreaded Culloden-lee?

The hand o' God hung heavy here, And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie; It struck the righteous to the ground, And lifted the destroyer hie. "But there's a day," quo' my God in prayer, "When righteousness shall bear the gree; I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,

And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's ee!"

THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE ROSE.

FULL white the Bourbon lily blows,
Still fairer England's haughty rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
But when his crest the warrior rears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
O there it blossoms-there it blows-
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

Bright like a steadfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous sight;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,
From matchless Bruce to dauntless Græme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows-
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

What conquered aye and nobly spared,
And firm endured and greatly dared?
What reddened Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill,
What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo ?
That spirit which no tremor knows-
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

I vow, and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less-
Men blyther at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth, more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song,
Or maids more fair, or wives more true
Than Scotland's, ne'er trod down the dew;
Unflinching friends-unconquered foes-
The Thistle 's grown aboon the Rose.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE was born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785. His father was a butcher, and intended to bring up Henry to the same business; but his mother, who had observed the boy's fondness for books, had him apprenticed to an attorney. He was exceedingly diligent, and in his spare hours learned Latin and Greek, and wrote for the press. He had written verses at a very early age, and his poetical contributions now attracted considerable attention. In 1804, by the advice of Capel Lloft, the critic, he published a small volume, "Clifton Grove, and other Poems," which some of the reviewers handled very roughly. White was extremely sensitive, and seemed at first utterly crushed; but the circumstance gained him some friends, among them Southey, and he obtained a sizarship at Cambridge. He studied day and night, and took the highest honors that were open to

him. But his strength was not equal to his ambition, and he died of consumption, October 19, 1806. A year later two volumes of his literary remains were published, with a memoir by Southey. These attracted wide attention, and the young poet was mourned as a great loss to literature. The most exquisite of the many tributes to his memory is in Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." It has lately become the fashion to shake the head at all this, and express a doubt whether literature lost in Kirke White any thing more than an unusually clever boy. But when we consider how few of even the great poets have produced any thing better before the age of twenty-one, and when we judge White, as every artist should be judged, by his best work, not by the mass of his experiments, we are inclined to think that the feeling of those who first mourned him was just.

CLIFTON GROVE.

Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light,
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight.
No more is heard the woodman's measured
stroke,

Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke;
No more hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head,
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd
bed;

Still'd is the village hum-the woodland sounds
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds,
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate;
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale,
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,
Released from day and its attendant toil,
And draws his household round their evening
fire,

And tells the oft-told tales that never tire;
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,
And manufacture taints the ambient skies,
The pale mechanic leaves the laboring loom,
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room,
And rushes out, impatient to begin
The stated course of customary sin:
Now, now my solitary way I bend

Where solemn groves in awful state impend,
And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain,
Bespeak, blest Clifton! thy sublime domain.

Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower,
I come to pass the meditative hour;
To bid awhile the strife of passion cease,
And woo the calms of solitude and peace.
And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on
high

Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh!
Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control
Steals with resistless witchery to the soul,
Come with thy wonted ardor, and inspire
My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire.
And thou too, Fancy! from thy starry sphere,
Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine

ear,

Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight,
Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight.
At thy command, the gale that passes by
Bears in its whispers mystic harmony.
Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo! what forms ap-
pear!

On the dark cloud what giant shapes career!
The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale,
And hosts of Sylphids on the moonbeams sail.
This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight,
Where meeting trees create eternal night;
Save when, from yonder stream, the sunny
ray,

Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day;
Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind,
Times when, beneath the boxen hedge re-
clined,

I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood;
Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food;

Or woke with song the woodland echo wild,
And at each gay response delighted smiled.
How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray
Of gay romance o'er every happy day,
Here would I run, a visionary boy,
When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky,
And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form
Sternly careering on the eddying storm;

And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul,

His voice terrific in the thunder's roll.
With secret joy I view'd with vivid glare,
The volley'd lightnings cleave the suilen air;
And, as the warring winds around reviled,
With awful pleasure big,-I heard and smiled.
Beloved remembrance !-Memory which endears
This silent spot to my advancing years.
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest,
In shades like these to live is to be blest.
While happiness evades the busy crowd,
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud.
And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame
Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame,
Thou here dost love to sit, with upturn'd eye,
And listen to the stream that murmurs by,
The woods that wave, the grey owl's silken flight,
The mellow music of the listening night:
Congenial calms, more welcome to my breast
Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest.
To heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise,
That ye may bless my unambitious days,
Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife,
May trace with me the lowly vale of life,
And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave,
May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave.
Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows,
A livelier light upon my vision flows.
No more above the embracing branches meet,
No more the river gurgles at my feet,

But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide.

Dim is my upland path,- -across the Green
Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between

Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms,
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms!
Thine are the sweets which never, never sate,
Thine still remain through all the storms of fate.
Though not for me 'twas Heaven's divine com
mand

To roll in acres of paternal land,
Yet still my lot is blest, while I enjoy
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye.

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss
Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss,
Who, still in abject poverty or pain,

Can count with pleasure what small joys remain.
Though were his sight convey'd from zone to

zone,

He would not find one spot of ground his own, Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, These bounding prospects all were made for

me:

For me yon waving fields their burthen bear,
For me yon labourer guides the shining share,
While happy I in idle ease recline,
And mark the glorious visions as they shine.
This is the charm, by sages often told,
Converting all it touches into gold.
Content can soothe, where'er by Fortune placed,
Can rear a garden in the desert waste.

How lovely, from this hill's superior height, Spreads the wide view before my straining sight!

O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground. E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, My ken is borne; while o'er my head serene, The silver moon illumes the misty scene; Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, In ail the soft varieties of shade.

Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet hes, The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. No more where late the social fagot blazed, The vacant peal resounds, by little raised, But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star

The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car: The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the

sheds

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads,

And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight,
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow,
And gives to him alone his bliss to know,
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms?
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death?
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings,
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs;
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from
strife,

The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,
No more his soul would pant for joys impure,
The deadly chalice would no more allure,
But the sweet potion he was wont to sip
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.

glade,

The solemn hour for walking spectres made!
The simple plow-boy, wakening with the sound,
Listens aghast, and turns him startled round,
Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes,
Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise.
Now ceased the long, the monitory toll,
Returning silence stagnates in the soul;
Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild
affright,

The deep-mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night:
Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale,
The creaking sign-post whistles to the gale,
A little onward let me bend my way
Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay.
That spot, oh! yet it is the very same;
That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name:
There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom,
There yet the violet sheds its first perfume,

*The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, B. ai. 113.

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