A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD.

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A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD.

These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long continuance; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the happiness of approaching him.

HOME of the gifted! fare thee well,
And a blessing on thee rest;

While the heather waves its purple bell
O'er moor and mountain crest;

While stream to stream around thee calls

And braes with broom are drest, Glad be the harping in thy hallsA blessing on thee rest!

While the high voice from thee sent forth
Bids rock and cairn reply,
Wakening the spirits of the North,

Like a chieftain's gathering cry;
While its deep master-tones hold sway
As a king's o'er every breast,
Home of the Legend and the Lay!
A blessing on thee rest!

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower!

Long honours to thy line!

And hearts of proof, and hands of power,

And bright names worthy thine!

By the merry step of childhood, still

May thy free sward be prest!

-While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, A blessing on thee rest!

O'CONNOR'S CHILD.

This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of Mrs. Lawrence of Wavertree Hall.-It represents the "Hero's Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from all external objects. A bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the weeds and wild-flowers of the desert.

"I fled the home of grief

At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall,
I found the helmet of my chief,

His bow still hanging on our wall;
And took it down, and vow'd to rove
This desert place a huntress bold:
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould."

CAMPBELL.

THE sleep of storms is dark upon the skies.
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud :-
Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise,

And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow'd,
And leave the tomb, as tombs are left-alone,
To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD.

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall,

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Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour'd;

Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall,

And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord; And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, Than the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave.

Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell, Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain, To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell,

A parting agony,-intense, yet vain,

A look and darkness when its gleam hath flown, A voice and silence when its words are gone!

She hears thee not; her full, deep, fervent heart Is set in her dark eyes;—and they are bound Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart,

Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground; And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, And anguish frozen into still despair.

Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last

A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; Around her path a vision's glow is cast,

Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn!1 For her the gulf is fill'd-the dark night fled, Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.

"A son of light, a lovely form,
He comes, and makes her glad."

CAMPBELL.

And she can pour forth in such converse high,
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong,
Oh! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny,

And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng,
Than hers-the queen of that majestic gloom,
The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb!

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.

O SUNSHINE and fair earth!

Sweet is your kindly mirth,

Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay!

Too sad it is to part,

Thus in my spring of heart,

With all the light and laughter of the day.

For me the falling leaf

Touches no chord of grief,

No dark void in the rose's bosom lies:

Not one triumphal tone,

One hue of hope, is gone

From song or bloom beneath the summer skies.

Death, Death! ere yet decay,

Call me not hence away,

Over the golden hours no shade is thrown;

The poesy that dwells

Deep in green woods and dells,

Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.

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Yet not for this, O Death!

Not for the vernal breath

Of winds that shake forth music from the trees;
Not for the splendour given

To night's dark regal heaven,
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.

But for the happy love
Whose light, where'er I rove,
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile,
Shedding on branch and flower

A rainbow-tinted shower

Of richer life-spare, spare me yet awhile.

Too soon, too fast thou'rt come!

Too beautiful is home,

A home of gentle voices and kind eyes!
And I the loved of all,

On whom fond blessings fall

From every lip-oh! wilt thou rend such ties ?

Sweet sisters! weave a chain

My spirit to detain;

Hold me to earth with strong affection back:

Bind me with mighty love

Unto the stream, the grove,
Our daily paths-our life's familiar track.

Stay with me! gird me round!

Your voices bear a sound

Of hope-a light comes with you and departs;