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Like rivers crimson'd with the beam

Of yonder planet bright,
Our balmy cups should ever stream

Profusion of delight;
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart;

For wine can triumph over woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Could build in Iser's sunny bowers

A paradise below.

LINES

ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.

Then for a beam of joy to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye!
Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.
Shall song its witching cadence roll ?

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

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 -
If close and closer to my breast

I hold that idol all divine.
Or, gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt o'er the loved departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears

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
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore,
Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged,
And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more ;
Whose banks, that sweeten’d May-day's breath before
Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam,
With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er;
And for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream
Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines

gleam.
Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ;
One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains.

But whither goes that wealth, and gladdining whom!
See, left but life enough, and breathing-room
The hunger and the hope of life to feel,
Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom,
And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel,
From morn till midnight task'd 10 earn its little moal.
Is this Improvement ?-where the human breed
Degenerates as they swarm and overflow,
Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed,
And man competes with man, like foe with foe,
Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woo!
Improvement !-smiles it in the poor man's eyes,
Or blooms it on the cheek of Labor ?-No-
To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize,
We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies.
Nor call that evil slight; God has not given
This passion to the heart of man in vain,
For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven,

And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.
For not alone our frame imbibes a stain
From fetid skies; the spirit's healthy pride
Fades in their gloom—And therefore I complain
That thou no more through pastoral scenes shoulds

glide, My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde !

DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH.
SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm

And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm

To prop the tender vine:
My golden flagons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill ;

And under every myrtle bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,
To many an idle hour.

P2

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

173

Then, then, every rapture was young and sincere,

LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear,
And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend, OH, death! if there be quiet in thine arms,
That the mansion of peace was the house of a FRIEND.

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!
While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, And lift me to some far-off skyey sphere,
Untainted by chance, unabaled by time.

Where I may wander in celestial light:
Might it be so—then would my spirit fear

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,
IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

Or keep in mind that I had ever been!
PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the “ Name Unknown," LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE,
Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul,
And all my future fate control,

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
My boding heart thy precious name;

That wakens thought too deep for song?
Yet musing on my distant fate,
To charms unseen I consecrate

The Christian world has seen you, Greeks,
A visionary flame.

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.
Thy virgin voice of melody,
Are ever present to my heart;

Even England brooks that, reeking hot,
Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine,

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
A power in mystic silence seal'd,

Insult your pale and prostrate land.
A guardian angel unreveald,
And bless the “Name Unknown!"

No! be your cause to England now,

That by permitting acts the wrong,
A thought of horror to her brow,

A theme for blushing—not for song,
TRAFALGAR.

To see her unavenging ships
When Frenchmen saw, with coward art,

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,
Their shout was heard,—they triumph'd now,

LINES
Amidst the battle's roar,
And thought the British oak would bow,

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 :
For blood so brave, or ocean wave

But this she learnt, that, ere he fell,
Can wash that crime away

(O men! O patriots! mark it well),

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His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Inclosed him like a living will,

Mixing their kindred gore!
Nor was the day of Flodden done,
Till they were slaughter'd one by one;

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,
While pleasure's fount throws up a showe

Of social sprinkling bliss,
Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight ?—She is not by!
There was an hour-there was an hour

When I indulged the spell,
That love wound round me with a power

Words vainly try to tell ;-
Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-
Yet there's an hour-lhere's still an hour

Whose coming sunshine may
Clear from the clouds that hang and lour

My fortune's future day :
That hour of hours beloved will be
That hour that gives thee back to me!

TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,

THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.

LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.

ADIEU, romance's heroines !
Give me the nymphs, who this good hour
May charm me, not in fiction's scenes,
But teach me beauty's living power;-
My harp, that has been mute too long,
Shall sleep at beauty's name no more,
So but your smiles reward my song,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,-
In whose benignant eyes are beaming
The rays of purity and truth;
Such as we fancy woman's seeming,
In the creation's golden youth ;-
The more I look upon thy grace,
Rosina, I could look the more,
But for Jemima's witching face,
And the sweet voice of Eleanore.
Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
Their portraits, till I'd painted yours;
And these had future hearts enchanted
When this poor verse no more endures ;
I would have left the congress faces,
A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,
Till I had grouped you as the graces
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.
The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him;
Your poet's heart is Catholic 100,-
His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,
His saint-days when he visits you.
And my sere laurels for my duty,
Miraculous at your touch would rise,
Could I give verse one trace of beauty
Like that which glads me from your eyes.
Unseald by you, these lips have spoken,
Disused to song for many a day ;
Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken,
And warm'd a heart of callous clay;
So, when my fancy next refuses
To twine for you a garland more,
Come back again and be my muses,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days;
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath,
I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.
Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song,
In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom
Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.
Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine
Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine!

Joy be to her who in your rising name
Feels love's bower brighten'd by the beams of fame
I lack'd a father's claim to her--but knew
Regard for her young years so pure and true,
That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride

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.
Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights

An archer for her lover,
And even in Winter's dark, cold nights

A charm he could discover.
Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

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

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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
To give two holy-minded men
A meal of bread and water.

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;
And if you supp'd on crusts, I fear

You'd go to bed but rrusty."
So forth he brought a flask of rich

Wine fit to feast Silenus,
And viands, at the sight of which

They laugh'd like two hyenas.
Alternately, the host and spouse

Regaled each pardon-gauger,
Who told them tales right marvellous,

And lied as for a wager-
'Bout churches like balloons convey'd

With aëronautic martyrs ;
And wells made warm, where holy maid

Had only dipt her garters.
And if their hearers gaped, I guess,

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.
At last they would have danced outright,

Like a baboon and tame bear,
If Jacquez had not drunk Good Night,

And shown them to their chamber. The room was high, the host's was nigh:

Had wife or he suspicion
That monks would make a raree-show

Of chinks in the partition ?—
Or that two confessors would come,

Their holy ears outreaching
To conversations as humdrum

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.
“Yet, Dominick, to die the bare

Idea shakes one oddly;
Yes, Boniface, 'tis time we were

Beginning to be godly.
“Would that, for absolution's sake,

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,
And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend

A glorious flagellation."
But having ne'er a switch, poor souls!

They bow'd like weeping willows,
And told the Saints long rigmaroles

Of all their peccadilloes.
Yet, 'midst this penitential plight,

A thought their fancies tickled; "Twere better brave the window's height

Than be at morning pickled.
And so they girt themselves to leap,

Both under breath imploring
A regiment of saints, to keep

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.

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