WOE to the youth, whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hands the reins,
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind;
And woe to those who train such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stithy glows the steel!
O teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glow'd with promised good;
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,

How soon his hopes possession cloy'd!

From Rokeby.

HAST thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd,
How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead

Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold?
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold,
The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still,

The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd hold,

Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill,

The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill!

THE summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled, but dimpled not for joy;
The mountain-shadows on her breast
Were neither broken nor at rest;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to Fancy's eye.

Invisible in flecked sky,

The lark sent down her revelry;
The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;
In answer coo'd the cushat dove

Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

From The Lady of the Lake.

THE rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears. O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, Emblem of hope and love through future years!

From The Lady of the Lake.

'A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.'

He turn'd his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, 'Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

From Rokeby.