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PRESENTIMENTS.

PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;

All heaven-born instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense,-and, being such,

Such privilege ye claim.

The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;

And now, unforced by time to part
With fancy, I obey my heart,

And venture on your praise.

What though some busy foes to good,
Too potent over nerve and blood,

Lurk near you-and combine
To taint the health which ye infuse;
This hides not from the moral muse
Your origin divine.

How oft from you, derided powers!
Comes faith that in auspicious hours
Builds castles, not of air;
Bodings unsanctioned by the will
Flow from your visionary skill,

And teach us to beware.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift,

Shall vanish, if ye please,
Like morning mist; and, where it lay,
The spirits at your bidding play
In gayety and ease.

Star-guided contemplations move

Through space, though calm, not raised above
Prognostics that ye rule;

The naked Indian of the wild,
And haply, too, the cradled child,
Are pupils of your school.

But who can fathom your intents,
Number their signs or instruments?
A rainbow, a sunbeam,

A subtle smell that spring unbinds,
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds,
An echo, or a dream.

The laughter of the Christmas hearth,
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth,
Ye feelingly reprove;

And daily, in the conscious breast,
Your visitations are a test

And exercise of love.

When some great change gives boundless scope
To an exulting nation's hope,

Oft, startled and made wise
By your low-breathed interpretings,
The simply-meek foretaste the springs
Of bitter contraries.

Ye daunt the proud array of war,
Pervade the lonely ocean far
As sail hath been unfurl'd;

For dancers in the festive hall
What ghastly partners hath your call
Fetched from the shadowy world!
"Tis said, that warnings ye dispense,
Embolden'd by a keener sense;

That men have lived for whom,
With dread precision, ye made clear
The hour that in a distant year

Should knell them to the tomb.
Unwelcome insight! Yet there are
Blest times when mystery is laid bare,
Truth shows a glorious face,
While on that isthmus which commands
The councils of both worlds, she stands,
Sage spirits! by your grace.

God, who instructs the brutes to scent
All changes of the element,

Whose wisdom fix'd the scale
Of natures, for our wants provides
By higher, sometimes humbler guides,
When lights of reason fail.

TO THE DAISY.

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,-
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And nature's love of thee partake,
Her much-loved daisy !

Thee winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few gray hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And autumn, melancholy wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;

Yet nothing daunted

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie
Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare;

He needs but look about, and there Thou art!-a friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn,

A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:

And when, at dusk. by dews opprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;

An instant call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how, nor whence,

Nor whither going.

Child of the year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,-when day's begun, As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time;-thou not in vain
Art nature's favourite.

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden way
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid, whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown-and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

ODE TO DUTY.

STERN daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work and know it not;

Oh! if through confidence misplaced

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet find thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;

No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we any thing so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads;

may.

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;

Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give;.

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

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AN INCIDENT AT BRUGES.
IN Bruges town is many a street
Whence busy life hath fled;
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet
The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade

Flung from a convent-tower,

A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,-for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;
But, where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state:
And, if the glory reached the nun,
"Twas through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,

If even a passing stranger sighs

For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe'er thou be?
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee?

Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified

By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gayly o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?

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THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself,

Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant

More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:

Such thrilling voice was never heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending.
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

AUTUMN.

THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,

The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,

By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life:
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy; while I hear
These vespers of another year,

This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,

And earth's precarious days.

But list!-though winter storms be nigh, Uncheck'd is that soft harmony:

There lives Who can provide For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant seraphim, These choristers confide.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

SHE was a phantom of delight,

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn ́
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

A MOUNTAIN SOLITUDE.

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes does a leaping fish

Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak

In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud; And mists that spread the flying shroud, And sun-beams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh on the fifteenth of August, 1771. "My birth," says he, "was neither distinguished nor sordid; according to the prejudices of my country it was esteemed gentle, as I was connected, though remotely, with ancient families, both by my father's and mother's side." Delicacy of constitution, attended by a lameness which proved permanent, was apparent in his infancy, and induced his removal to the rural residence of his grandfather, near the Tweed, where he remained until about the eighth year of his age. In the introduction to the third canto of Marmion he has graphically described the scenery by which he was surrounded, his interest in its ruins and his sympathy with its grandeur and beauty. The romantic ballads and legends to which he listened here were treasured in his memory, and had a powerful influence upon his future character. From 1779 to 1783 he was in the high school of Edinburgh. He tells us, alluding to this period, that he had a reputation as a tale-teller, and that the applause of his companions was a recompense for the disgraces and punishments he incurred by being idle himself and keeping others idle during hours which should have been devoted to study. In 1783 he became a student in the university, but his education proceeded unprosperously. He had no inclination for science, and was a careless learner of the languages, though he acquired the French, Italian, and Spanish, so as to read them with sufficient ease.

In 1786 he entered the law office of his father, and in 1792, being then nearly twentyone years of age, he was called to the bar. He paid little attention to his profession, but was an industrious reader of romantic literature, in his own and foreign languages, especially in the German, with which he had recently become familiar. The position of his family, and his own cheerful temper and fine colloquial abilities, procured him admission to the best society of the city, and led to his acquaintance with a young lady by whose marriage long and fondly-cherished hopes were disappointed. Her image was for ever in his

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memory, and inspired some of the most beautiful passages in his poetry. In 1797, however, he became acquainted with Miss CHarpentier, the daughter of a French refugee, to whom, in the autumn of that year, he was married.

Previous to this time M. G. LEWIS had acquired considerable reputation by his imitations of the German ballads; and conceiving that if inferior to him in poetical powers, he was his superior in general information, SCOTT had undertaken to become his rival. His earliest efforts, translations of BURGER'S Leonore and Wild Huntsman, were published in 1796, and two years afterward appeared in London his version of GOETHE'S Goetz von Berlichingen. Each of these volumes was favourably reviewed, but coldly received by the public.

Soon after his marriage ScoTT had taken a pleasant house on the banks of the Tweed, about thirty miles from Edinburgh. By the death of his father he had come into possession of a considerable income; his wife had an annuity of four hundred pounds; and the office of sheriff of Selkirkshire, which imposed very little duty, now produced him some three hundred more. At twenty-eight years of age few men were more happily situated, but he had as yet done scarcely any thing toward founding a reputation as a man of letters.

His leisure hours were for several years devoted to the preparation of The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, the third and last volume of which appeared in 1803. This

work gave him at once an enviable position. He soon after visited London, where he formed friendships with the leading authors of the day, and in the beginning of 1805 he placed himself in the list of classic writers by the publication of his first great original work, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which was received with universal applause, and of which more than thirty thousand copies were sold in the ensuing twenty years.

The limits of this biography forbid any thing more than an allusion to Scort's obtaining one of the principal clerkships in the Scottish Court of Session, his quarrel with Constable, partnership with Ballantyne, esta

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