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The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow !

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory ;
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, (a)

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber !
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever !



Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way ;

Go boldly forth ; nor yet thy master blame, Who chose no patron for his humble lay,

And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame.

(a) Or corri. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.

There was and O! how many sorrows crowd

Into these two brief words!-there was a claim(a) By generous friendship given-had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the


All angel now yet little less than all,

While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,

W’hich hid its own, to sooth all other woe; What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow

Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: And, least of all, what 'vails the world should

know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither




BURY. ART thou a Patriot, Traveller ?—On this field Did FALKLAND fall, the blameless and the brave, Beneath a Tyrant's banners.--Dost thou boast Of loyal ardour ? HAMPDEN perish'd here, The rebel HAMPDEN, at whose glorious name

(a) This is understood to refer to the Dutchess of Buccleuch, who died shortly before the poem appeared.

The heart of every honest Englishman
Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncor-

rupt, Friends to their common country both, they

fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.


Poussin ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes
Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze
With lingering eye, till charmed Fancy makes
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind
Flies far away with spirit-speed, and tastes
The untainted air, that with the lively hue
Of health and happiness illumes the cheek
Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul
All eager follows on thy faery flights,
Fancy! best friend; whose blessed witcheries
With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller
O'er the long wearying desert of the world.
Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,
Or Alquif, or Zaizafiel's sister sage,
Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced
Lisuart the Grecian, pride of chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours ! thou leadest me
To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,

Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons ;
Her wretched sons, who pine with want amid
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down
Before the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and

AUTHORS of Evił. Oh, it is most sweet
To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart,
Sick of reality. The little pile
Thất tops the summit of that craggy hill
Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill
And steep ; yet through yon hazels upwards leads
The easy path, along whose winding way
Now close-embower'd I hear the unseen stream
Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam
Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on,
Now pause me to survey the goodly vale
That opens on my vision. Half way up
Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock
To sit and sun myself, and look below,
And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank'd

path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff go drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height. Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the border steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers

Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal’d, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun Should bound mine eyes,-ay, and my wishes

too, For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices, would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God: nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE, Ye leave her to reality awaked, Like thee poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.



ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O Reader ? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,

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