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And holy men in cowl and hood

And while the torrent thunders loud, Are wandering up and down the wood.

And as the echoing cliffs reply, But what avail they? Ruthless Lord,

The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud, 'Thou didst not shudder when the sword

Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless and the innocent.
Sit now and answer groan for groan,

IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET. The child before thee is thy own.

Love, under Friendship’s vesture white, And she who wildly wanders there,

Laughs, his little limbs concealing ; The mother in her long despair,

And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,

Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Smiles through his tears revealing. Of those who would not be consoled

But now as Rage the God appears !
When red with blood the river rollid.

He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,

'T is Love; and Love is still the same.
On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers

A CHARACTER. The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; As through the hedge-row shade the violet steals, Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals ;

Her softer charms, but by their influence known, As on she moves with hesitating grace,

Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own She winis assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice.


YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **** Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame ! To thee she turns—forgive a virgin's fears !

Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim :

What most her blushes would conceal ? Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears !

Why lift that modest veil to trace

The seraph-sweetness of her face? At each response the sacred rite requires,

Some fairer, better sport prefer; From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.

And feel for us, if not for her. A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires;

For this presumption, soon or late,

Know thine shall be a kindred fate. And on her lips the trembling accents die.

Another shall in vengeance riseO'er her fair face what wild emotions play!

Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes; What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend! And, echoing back her wood-notes wild, Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day,

-Trace all the mother in the child ! And settled sunshine on her soul descend !

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought! hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers; Tread lightly here ; for here, 't is said,
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, When piping winds are hush'd around,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !

A small note wakes from under-ground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone and leafless groves,

With ruffled wing and faded breast,

His friendless, homeless spirit roves ;
The sun-beams streak the azure skies,

-Gone to the world where birds are blest! And line with light the mountain's brow:

Where never cat glides o'er the green,
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,

Or school-boy's giant form is seen ;
And chase the roe-buck through the snow. But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring

Inspire their little souls to sing !
From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass ;
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,

Rend from above a frozen mass.

When by the greenwood side, at summer eve, The goats wind slow their wonted way

Poetic visions charm my closing eye; Up craggy steeps and ridges rude ;

And fairy scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,

Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy; From desert cave or hanging wood. 1 There are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to

1 Alluding to some verses which she bad written on an elder move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the sister. air should loosen the snows above.

2 Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod.

"Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,

Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,

SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!

Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, -Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,

Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Unsheathes its terrors in the sultry air !

Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

This iron cup chain'd for the general use, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,

Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.

”T was here she turn'd from her beloved sire, Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!

To see his face no more.' Oh, if thou canst, -I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

|(T is not far off) visit his tomb with flowers;

And with a drop of this sweet water fill
The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there,

That birds may come and drink upon his grave,

Making it holy!?
MINE be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.


SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch

BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Ben Lomond in his glory shone, Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Bore me from thy silver sands,

Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Around my ivied porch shall spring

Where, grey with age, the dial stands; Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

That dial so well known to me! And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing

-Though many a shadow it had shed, In russet gown and apron blue.

Beloved Sister, since with thee

The legend on the stone was read. The village-church, among the trees,

The fairy-isles fled far away; Where first our marriage-vows were given, That with its woods and uplands green, With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

And songs are heard at close of day;
That, too, the deer's wild covert, fled,

And that, the asylum of the dead :

While, as the boat went merrily,
While through the broken pone the tempest sighs, Much of Rob Roy: the boatman told,
And my step falters on the faithless floor,

His arm, that fell below his knee, Shades of departed joys around me rise,

His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.
With many a face that smiles on me no more ;

Tarbat," thy shore I climb’d at last,
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, And, thy shady region pass'd,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!

Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood ; 6

Great Ocean's self! ("T is He who fille

That vast and awful depth of hills);

Where many an elf was playing round DEAR is my little native vale,

Who treads urshod his classic ground; The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; And speaks, his native rocks among, Close by my cot she tells her tale

As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. To every passing villager.

Night fell; and dark and darker grev The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,

That narrow sea, that narrow sky, And shells his nuts at liberty.

As o'er the glimmering waves we flew;

The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,

And now the grampus, half-descried, That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

Black and huge above the tide ; I charm the fairy-footed hours

The cliffs and promontories there, With my loved lute's romantic sound;

Front to front, and broad and bare ; Or crowns of living laurel weave,

Each beyond each, with giant-feet
For those that win the race at eve.

Advancing as in haste to meet ;
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,

1 See an anecdote related by Pausanias, iï, 20. The canzonet and roundelay

2 A Turkish superstition. Sung in the silent greenwood shade,

3 A famous outlaw. These simple joys, that never fail,

4 Signifying, in the Erse language, an Isthmus. Shall bind me to my native vale.

5 Loch-Long.

The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane

Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain :

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, All into midnigh!-shadow sweep,

Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light; When day springs upward from the deep!' And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Kindling the waters in its flight,

Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. The prow wakes splendor; and the oar,

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, That rose and fell unseen before,

Expand and shut with silent ecstay! Flashes in a sea of light!

-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay
And bright indeed the path should be To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!
That leads to Friendship and to thee!

Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desert air,

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.

OCTOBER 10, 1806.'
Ofi, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,

Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, Amid the hum and stir of men,

Mark where the sinall remains of greatness lie.? Thy beechen grove and waterfall,

There sleeps the dust of Fox, for ever gone : Thy ferry with its gliding sail,

How near the Place where late his glory shone! And her—the Lady of the Glen!

And, though no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Though the last footsteps cease to linger there,

Sull, like an awful dream that comes again,

Alas! at bust as transient and as vain,
Once more, enchanting maid adieu !

Suill do I see (while through the vaults of night I must be gone while yet I may;

The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite) Oft shall I weep to think of you,

The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle, But here I will not, cannot stay.

That like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile;

The illustrious line, that in long order led, The sweet expression of that face,

Of those that loved Him living, mourn'd Him dead; For ever changing, yet the same,

of those the Few, that for their Country stood Ah no, I dare not turn to trace

Round Him who dared be singularly good :

All, of all ranks, that claim'd Him for their own; It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

And nothing wanting—but himself alone! : Yet give me, give me, ere I go,

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name; One little lock of those so blest,

Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame ?

Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead ! 4 That lend your cheek a warmer glow,

Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed ? And on your white neck love to rest.

|(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave; Say, when to kindle soft delight,

How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !)

In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
That hand has chanced with mine tu meet,

The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
How could its thrilling touch excite
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew

Ah, who so mighty and so gentle 100 ?" O say—but no, it must not be.

What though with War the madding nations rung

Peace," when He spoke, was ever on his tongue ! Adieu! a long, a long adieu! -Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,

Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Or never could I fly from you.

Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapors gather’d round;
He walk'd, erect, on consecrated ground.

The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day,
INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE Reflect its splendor, and dissolve away!

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES. 2 APPROACH with reverence. There are those within

1 After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,

2 Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, eto From them flow all the decencies of life;

-Bossuet. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon. Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self Admired, not loved; and those on whom they smile, 3 Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui

à . Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful,

4 Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ Shine forth with double lustre.

for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802.

5 See that admirable delineation of his character by Sir James 1 A phenomenon described by many navigators.

Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier Jan2 At Woburn-Abbey.

uary 17, 1807.

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When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For letter'd ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his godlike Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page; There, listening, sate the hero and the sage;

And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died

Friend of all human-kind! not here alone
(The voice that speaks, was not to thee unknown)
Wilt Thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea,
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee!

And, when the Storm is hush'd-in distant years, Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears'






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