O

Amid this calm, this silence deep,
I wander here, to sigh, to weep,

And breathe my hopeless flame;
To rocks and woods I still complain,
To woods and rocks, alas! in vain
I sigh Matilda's name.

O Love! thou dear, distracting bliss,
Assist my bosom to express

Those pains, those joys I feel;

Joy, that enraptures while I gaze,
And pain, that tortures, while the blaze
Of love I must conceal.

Sweet is her form, her features meek,
And bright the crimson of her cheek
Beyond the roses' glow.

Hers is the heart, with softness blest,
And hers each worth that warms the breast
Of innocence below.

But, ah! for ever we must part!

Forget her then, thou throbbing heart,
Nor idly thus complain.

Truth, prudence, reason, all can teach
That Happiness, which mocks our reach,
But aggravates our pain.

The Suicide.

-Dreadful attempt!

Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;

As if we challenged him to do his worst,
And mattered not his wrath-

Ye hapless sons of mis'ry and of woe,

BLAIR.

Whose days are spent with heart-distressing care,
Who seem the sport of ruthless fate below,

Still lab'ring hard, and still, as winter bare;

O

O

Tho' rough the path, tho' weighty be the share
Of nameless ills, that press you ever down;
Oh! never, never yield to dire despair,

Or think your griefs intolerable grown;

Each has his secret load, and each must feel his own.

II.

Is pale Disease, is Poverty your lot?

Or, are you doomed to some obscure employ?
Does mankind rate your merits by your coat;
Or burns your breast by Love's distracting boy?
Yet still reflect what blessings you enjoy;
Returning Health again may blush your face;
Glad Plenty smile-your toils forget to cloy,
And Celia blush amid your chaste embrace,
Then men shall see you decked with every worth
and grace.

III.

Be wisely calm, and brave the adverse storm;
Let Hope to happier times direct your sight;
Though mis'ries stare in many a threat'ning form,
Hope slacks their jaws and mitigates their bite:
And though the present scene be black as night,
Trust me, your hopes shall not be long in vain ;
For oft, though Pain put Pleasure to the flight;
Yet Pleasure still dethrones the tyrant Pain,
And soothes the weary soul to peace and joy again.

IV.

Unhappy they whose each returning morn
Is filled with sad complaints and curses dire;
Fate ever frowns, and still they are forlorn,
If each thing move not with their wild desire.
'Gainst righteous heaven, with furious looks of fire,
They rave, blaspheme, and roll in blackest sin,
Till driven by mad despair and hopeless ire,
To poison, dagger, or the engulphing linn,
Unworthy heaven or earth, hell yawns to take them in.

V.

Lone Night had lulled the drousy world asleep, And cloudy darkness wrapped the midnight sky, Scarce thro' the gloom the stars were seen to peep, This moment bright, then muffled from the eye; The distant bittern's solemn-sounding cry, The breeze that sighed along the rustling grove, The hasty brook that ceaseless murmured by, Composed my thought as forth I went to rove, To sing Matilda's charms and mourn my hopeless love.

VI.

As near a thicket's shade I pensive stood, The black trees waving solemnly around, Sudden I heard a rushing through the wood, And near me passed, along the dew-wet ground, A human form; its head with white was bound, While loose its ruffled hair flew in the breeze; A dagger fast it grasped; and, at each sound, Would start, and stop, then glide among the trees, While slow I traced its steps, though trembled both my knees.

VII.

Deep through the turnings of a darksome vale, Where blasted trunks hung from the impending steep,

Where oft was heard the owl's wild dreary wail, Its course I followed, wrapt in silence deep. At length it paused, fear thro' my frame did creep, While still I looked, and softly stealing near, Heard mournful groans, as if it seemed to weep, And intervening sighs, and moanings drear, Till through the night's sad gloom these words broke on my ear:

VIII.

"Curst be the hour that to existence brought Me, wretched me! to war with endless woe! Curst be the wretch! and curst the barbarous thought

That bade me stretch the bleeding beauty low! Still from her breast the purple torrents flow; Still, still I hear her loud for mercy crave— See!-hark; she groans, alas! some pity show! For love, for Heaven, for mercy's sake! oh save! No; see her mangled corse floats o'er the midnight

wave.

IX.

"O earth! O darkness! hide her from my sight: Shall hell, shall furies rack me ere I die? No, this shall sink me in eternal night, To meet those torments that I ne'er can fly. Ye yelling fiends that now around me hie, Exult and triumph in the accursed deed; Soon in your flaming gulphs ye shall me spy, Despair, attend, the gloomy way to lead; For what I now endure no hell can e'er exceed."

X.

He said: and, gazing furiously around,

Plunged in his heart the dagger's deadly blade; Deep, deep he groaned; and reeling to the ground, I rushed to rescue through the entangling shade; Flat on the mossy sod I found him laid, And oft I called, and wept, and trembled sore; But life was fled-too late all human aid: And while his grasp the shining dagger bore, His lifeless head lay sunk in blood and clotted gore.

Hardyknute; or the Battle of Largs.*

A FRAGMENT-ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH VERSE.

ALONG the front of his high-walled abode
Deep-wrapt in thought, the stately hero strode,
Through his bold breast revolving those alarms
That oft had roused and rushed him on to arms;
That through long seventy years would scarce allow
Seven years of peace, to calm his aged brow.
In times he lived, when Briton's breach of faith
Filled Scotia's plains with tumult and with death;
Nor failed his sword, still to their cost to show,
He stood their deadly, their determined foe.

High on a hill's steep top his castle stood,
Hung round with rocks, that frowned above the wood,
The spiry turrets tow'ring through the sky;
The glittering halls that caught the distant eye,
The wall's huge strength, that war could ne'er annoy,
Foes viewed with terror, but each friend with joy ;
For oft, when night her murky shades o'ercast,
And lashed the rain, and roared the howling blast,
The wand'ring knight here found a welcome home,
Forgot his woes, and blest the friendly dome.

Bold was the chief, brave Hardyknute his name; And kind and courteous his endearing dame. Peerless she shone, for chastity and charms, When fav'ring Fate first gave her to his arms.

The battle of Largs was fought on the 1st of August, 1263, between Alexander III., king of Scotland, and Haquin V., king of Norway, in their contention for the Northern and Western Isles. Haquin had already reduced Bute and Arran; and making a descent with 20,000 men on the continent, was encountered and defeated by the Scots army at Largs in Ayrshire; upon which he retreated to his ships, and his fleet being dissipated, and in part destroyed by a tempest, he returned to the Orkneys, from whence he had made the descent, and there, after a few days' illness, expired.