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Like rivers crimson'd with the beam
Of yonder planet bright,
Profusion of delight;
For wine can triumph over woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Could build in Iser's sunny bowers
A paradise below.
ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.
Then for a beam of joy to light
In Memory's sad and wakeful eye!
Her dreams of deeper agony.
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
And heart to heart responsive beat? What visions rise! to charm, to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead, are near! Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt!
And cease that solace, too severe! But thou serenely silent art!
By heaven and love was taught to lend A milder solace to the heart,
The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possest,
To me that sweet memorial shine -
I hold that idol all divine.
Melt o'er the loved departed form,
With life, and speech, and spirit warm. She looks! she lives! this tranced hour
Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or glory's wealthy diadem. Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid
A treasure to my soul has given, Where Beauty's canonized shade
Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled,
Thy soft’ning, sweet'ning tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead,
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse,
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charm’d by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,
And call thee brightest of the Nine!
AND call they this Improvement ?—to have changed
But whither goes that wealth, and gladdining whom!
And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.
glide, My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde !
DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH.
And flowery gardens mine,
To prop the tender vine:
And under every myrtle bower,
LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. Oh! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart Ye green-waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd By the stream of the vale and the grase-cover'd glaito
Then, then, every rapture was young and sincere,
LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.
And I must cease-gently, oh, gently come,
To me! and let my soul learn no alarms, Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart, But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart;
Senseless, and breathless.-And thou, sickly life, Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, If the decree be writ, that I must die, For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. Do thou be guilty of no needless strise,
Nor pull me downwards to mortality, But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains,
When it were fitter I should take a flight While Friendship and all its enchantment remains,
But whither? Holy Pity, hear, oh hear!
Where I may wander in celestial light:
To quit the things I have so loved, when seen,
The air, the pleasant sun, the summer green, THE “NAME UNKNOWN;"
Knowing how few would shed one kindly lear,
Or keep in mind that I had ever been!
Or wilt thou write the “ Name Unknown," LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE,
OCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE IT A
SUBJECT OF POETRY, 1897. Unrivall’d and alone ?
IN Greece's cause the Muse, you deem, Delicious Idol of my thought!
Ought still to plead, persisting strong ; Though sylph or spirit hath not taught
But feel you not, 't is now a theme
That wakens thought too deep for song?
The Christian world has seen you, Greeks,
Heroic on your ramparts fall;
The world has heard your widows’ shrieks, Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye,
And seen your orphans dragg’d in thrall.
Even England brooks that, reeking hot,
The ruffian's sabre drinks your veins, My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,
And leaves your thinning remnant's lot And never, never part!
The bitter choice of death or chains. Then fly, my days, on rapid wing,
Oh! if we have nor hearts nor swords Till Love the viewless treasure bring;
To snatch you from the assassins' brand, While I, like conscious Athens, own
Let not our pity's idle words
Insult your pale and prostrate land.
No! be your cause to England now,
That by permitting acts the wrong,
A theme for blushing—not for song,
To see her unavenging ships
Ride fast by Greece's funeral pile, The assassin shot of war
"Tis worth a curse from Sibyl lips !
'Tis matter for a demon's smile! That pierced Britain's noblest heart,
And quench'd her brightest star,
ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE Since Nelson was no more.
BATTLE OF FLODDEN. But fiercer flamed old England's pride,
'T was he that ruled his country's heart And-mark the vengeance due,
With more than royal sway; • Down, down, insulting ship," she cried,
But Scotland saw her James depart, “ To death, with all thy crew!
And sadden'd at his stay.
She heard his fate—she wept her grief, * So perish ye for Nelson's blood,
That James, her loved, her gallant chief, If deaths like thine can pay
Was gone for evermore :
But this she learnt, that, ere he fell,
(O men! O patriots! mark it well),
His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Mixing their kindred gore!
And this may serve to show: When kings are patriots, none will flyWhen such a king was doom'd to die,
Oh who would death forego ?
In such an hour-in such an hour,
In such an hour as this,
Of social sprinkling bliss,
When I indulged the spell,
Words vainly try to tell ;-
Whose coming sunshine may
My fortune's future day :
TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,
THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.
LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,
ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.
ADIEU, romance's heroines !
My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
Joy be to her who in your rising name
SONG. When Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rose-buds to receive him, And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing
To heaven, if she should leave him. But Spring, departing, saw his faith
Pledged to the next new-comerHe revell'd in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of Summer.
An archer for her lover,
A charm he could discover.
For this time were his reasonsIn short, young Love's a gallant boy, Thai likes all times and seasons.
SONG. "T is now the hour—'t is now the hour
Th bow at beauty's shrine; Now, whilst our hearts confess the power
Of women, wit, and wine; And beaming eyes look on so bright, Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.
DIRGE OF WALLACE.
SONG. They lighted a taper at the dead of night, O CHERUB Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, And chanted their holiest hymn;
I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, I'd part with ambition thy vot'ry to be, Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee! And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, When her curtain had shook of its own accord; Like the gold-color'd clouds on the verge of the sky; And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board, No lustre that hangs on the green willow-tree, To tell of her warrior's doom!
Is so sweet as the smile of thy favor to me. • Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care For the soul of my knight so dear;
That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share, And call me a widow this wretched day,
The noon of my life slow departing I see, Since the warning of God is here!
But its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee. For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep :The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die :
O cherub Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
I would offer my vows if Matilda were mine; And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
Could I call her my own, whom enraptured I see, For Wallace of Elderslie!"
I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee
Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd
That rebell'd at stern reason and duty, Returning shall yield all their loyalty proud
To the halcyon dominion of Beauty.
They bow'd and bless'd the dame, and then
In pious terms besought her
The priests knew not that country-folks
Gave pigs the name of friars ; Put startled, witless of the joke,
As if they trod on briers. Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread,
The hair of either craven Had stood erect upon his head,
But that their heads were shaven.
For water and a crust they crave,
Those mouths that, even on Lent days, Scarce knew the taste of water, save
When watering for dainties. Quoth Jacquez, “ That were sorry cheer
For men fatigued and dusty;
You'd go to bed but rrusty."
Wine fit to feast Silenus,
They laugh'd like two hyenas.
Regaled each pardon-gauger,
And lied as for a wager-
With aëronautic martyrs ;
Had only dipt her garters.
With jaws three inch asunder, 'T was partly out of weariness,
And partly out of wonder. Then striking up duets, the frères
Went on to sing in matches, From psalms to sentimental airs,
From these to glees and catches.
Like a baboon and tame bear,
And shown them to their chamber. The room was high, the host's was nigh:
Had wife or he suspicion
Of chinks in the partition ?—
Their holy ears outreaching
Almost as their own preaching? Shame on you, friars of orders grey,
That peeping knelt, and wriggling, And when ye should have gone to pray,
Betook yourselves to giggling! But every deed will have its meed:
And hark! what information Has made the sinners, in a trice,
Look black with consternation.
" What! pickle and smoke us limb by limb?
God curse him and his larders! St. Peter will bedevil him
If he saltpetre friare.
Idea shakes one oddly;
Beginning to be godly.
Of all our sins and cogging, We had a whip to give and take
A last kind mutual flogging. “O Dominick! thy nether end
Should bleed for expiation,
A glorious flagellation."
They bow'd like weeping willows,
Of all their peccadilloes.
A thought their fancies tickled; "Twere better brave the window's height
Than be at morning pickled.
Both under breath imploring
Their host and hostess snoring.
The lean one 'lighted like a cat,
Then scamper'd off like Jehu, Nor stopp'd to help the man of fat,
Whose cheek was of a clay hueWho, being by nature more design'd
For resting than for jumping, Fell heavy on his parts behind,
That broaden'd with the plumping. There long beneath the window's sconce
His bruises he sat pawing, Squat as the figure of a bonze
Upon a Chinese drawing. At length he waddled
a sty; The pigs, you'd thought for game-sake, Came round and nosed him lovingly,
As if they'd known their namesake. Meanwhile the other flew to town,
And with short respiration Bray'd like a donkey up and down “Ass-ass-ass-assination!"
The farmer on a hone prepares
His knife, a long and keen one; And talks of killing both the frères,
The fat one and the lean one.
Tomorrow by the break of day,
He orders, too, saltpetre And pickling tubs But, reader, stay,
Our host was no man-eater.