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So through the land I wand'ring went,
And little found of grief or joy;
But lost my bosom's sweet content,
When first I lov'd the Gipsy-Boy.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

BURNS.

THOU ling ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but th' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

ROSCOE.

REAR high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread,
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red;
But, ah! what poet now shall tread
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
That ever breath'd the soothing strain?

As green thy tow'ring pines may grow,
As clear thy streams may speed along,
As bright thy summer suns may glow,
And wake again thy feath'ry throng;
But now, unheeded is the song,

And dull and lifeless all around,
For his wild harp lies all unstrung,

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound.

What tho' thy vig'rous offspring rise!
In arts and arms thy sons excel;
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes,
And health in ev'ry feature dwell;
Yet who shall now their praises tell,

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free,

Since he no more the song shall swell
To love, and liberty, and thee!

With step-dame eye, and frown severe,
His hapless youth why did'st thou view?
For all thy joys to him were dear,
And all his vows to thee were due;
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,
In op'ning youth's delightful prime,
Than when thy favouring ear he drew
To listen to his chanted rhyme.

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies
To him were all with rapture fraught;
He heard with joy the tempest rise

That wak'd him to sublimer thought;
And oft thy winding dells he sought,

Where wild flowers pour'd their rathe perfume, And with sincere devotion brought

To thee the summer's earliest bloom.

ON A DAY IN SPRING.

BISHOP HORNE.

SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
Bridal of earth and sky,

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,-
For thou, alas! must die.

Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave,
And colour charms the eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou, alas! must die."

Sweet spring, of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie,
Thy days depart, thy roses fade,-
Thou, too, alas! must die.

Be wise, then, Christians, while you may,
For swiftly time is flying;

The thoughtless man that laughs to-day,
To-morrow may be dying.

TO MY DAUGHTER, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY.

LORD BYRON.

HAIL to this teeming stage of strife

Hail, lovely miniature of life!

Pilgrim of many cares untold!

Lamb of the world's extended fold!

Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears!

Sweet promise of ecstatic years!

How fainly would I bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

'Tis nature's worship-felt-confest
Far as the life which warms the breast:
The sturdy savage 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of man,

In trackless woods, and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb-the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears-
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak;

Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could meet thine untun'd ear,
And greet it with a father's pray'r.

But little reck'st thou, O my child!
Of travail on life's thorny wild,
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each loit'ring footstep which enclose-
Ah! little réck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that speeds between
The little all we here can find

And the dark mystic sphere behind!

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born!
Of clouds that gather round thy morn,
Of arts to lure thy soul astray,
Of snares that intersect thy way,
Of secret foes, of friends untrue,

Of fiends who stab the heart they woo-
Little thou reck'st of this sad store!

Would thou might'st never reck them more !

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep→→→
The tenant of a frail abode,

Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd-
Beguil'd by follies, ev'ry day,

Sorrow must wash thy faults away.;

And thou may'st wake perchance to prove
The pang of unrequited love.

Unconscious babe! tho' on that brow
No half-fledg'd mis'ry nestles now—
Scarce round those placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,

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