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ON Leven's banks, while free to rove
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gayly green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen:
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.



A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er!

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power, As the billow the form of the gale that was fled!

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
Was pity for those who were wiser than I!

I felt, how the pure, intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray;

How soon in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away!

And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That pleasure no more might its purity dim;
And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,

I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him!

The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven
Had already the wreath of eternity shown;
As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven,
My heart had begun to be purely its own!

I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more"Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, "can a heavenly Eye

"Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!"*

#Ps. iv. 6.-Lord, lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us.



FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

Utáwas tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favouring air!
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.



WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
(Began the rev'rend Sage ;)

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful Pleasure's rage?

Or haply prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of Man.

The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;

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