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“It was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to

shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. “Oh pity, great father of light, then I cry'd, Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo! humble in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness, thou only canst free.' And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in dejection forlorn, So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love and mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are

blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

CAMPBELL.

Ar the silence of twilight's comtemplative hour,

I have mus’d, in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travell’d by few is the grass-covered road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior strode

To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been:
Like a brotherless hermit the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew
From each wandering sun-beam a lonely embrace;
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the

place Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

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Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;

But patience shall never depart!
Tho' the wilds of enchantment, all vermil and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind:
Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore:
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves to the shore !
Thro' the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate; Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again.

To bear is to conquer our fate.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

T. CAMPBELL. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of

youth's warm emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh.
Sad is my fate! (said the heart-broken stranger),
'The wild-deer and wolf to a cover can flee;
But I have no resuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet

hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.
Erin ! my country! tho sad and forsaken,

In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more.

Oh ! cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me !
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?-
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?

Ah ! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drops may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. Yet,-all its fond recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw.Erin-an exile bequeaths thee his blessing: Land of my forefathers!—Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields sweetest isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin! Erin go bragh!

THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT.

BURNS. The small-birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the

vale; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning,

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the sweet dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? -No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly sing

ing, Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice?

A king and a father to place on his throne?

His right are these hills, and his right are these val

lies, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find

none.

But 'tis not my sufferings,—thus wretched, forlorn! My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn: Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial !Alas! can I make you no sweeter return!

GRAY'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH

YARD.

Reprinted according to the original copy. The curfew tolls--the knell of parting day! The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share.

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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor;

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,

Await, alike, the inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault,
If Memory o’er their comb no trophies raise,
Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle, and fretted

vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeted breath? -

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust
Or Flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;-

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble

rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden,that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

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