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Here, Peace, bring health-hence, fullen deep Dejection!
Here dreams of grief to waking joys give way:
List to yon thruth his fong chides fad reflection;
Soft consolation pours from ev'ry spray,
To tliarm the soul religo'd with full harmonious lay.
ON SEEING A NOTICE TO PARTIES NOT TO DINE IN
THE MEADOWS OF A CLERGYMAN, ON THE BANKS
OF THE THAMES.
[From the Morning Poft.]
MOSES, the meekeft and the best of men,
Confin’d his mild and pure decrees to ten;
But thon, benevalent elect of Heav'n,
Haft swellid the code so pious to eleven;
And, left our joys below fhould be too sweet,
Command'st us, in thy kindness, not to eat.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
Noftir in the air, no ftir in the sea,
The ship was still as she might be;
Her lails from heav'n receiv'd no motion -
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either fign, or sound of their shock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock :
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The pious Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder, and louder, it warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the tempelt's (well,
The mariners heard the warnitig bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And bless'd the prieft of Aberbrothok,
The fun in heaven Mone so gay-
All things were joyful on that day :
The Tea-birds fcream'd, as they iported round,
And there was pleasure in their found.
The float of the Inchcape bell was feen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the rover, walk'd bis deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering pow'r of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him fing:
His heart was mirthful to excess--
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.
eye was on the bell and float
Quoth he, “ My men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrot hok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go ;
Sir Ralph hent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the Rock,
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok.”
Sir Ralph, the rover, fail'd away;
He fcour'd the feas for many a day;
And now, grown rich, with plunder'd store,
He steers his course to Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On deck the rover takes his stand,
So dark it is, they see no land;
Quoth Sir Ralph, “ It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
“ Canst hear,” said one, " the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, thould be the shore.
Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell.”
They hear no found; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a Miv'ring Biock-
O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!
Sir Ralph, the rover, toreihis hair;
He curst himself in his despair.
The waves rush in on ev'ry side,
The ship is finking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful found could the rover hear;
A found as if with the Inchcape bell,
The devil below was ringing his knell.
THE BLIND LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.
AHI let me hear again that mellow strain,
That dulcet trill, whose soft and lucid sweep
Steals o'er my trembling foul like gale of eve,
That o'er the world of waters steals its wing,
Wakening the sea-wave. Thus let thy sweet song
Wake the now fumb'ring waves of pausing thought,
And through my secret heart pour the rich tide
Of men’ry's food, Let the fair shades arise
Of buried hours; let ev'ry witching charm
That fancy weaves, hang on thy' quiv’ring note,
And speak of raptures paít, and yet to come.
What though to me are veil'the living morn,
luxuriarice of the woodland blooin;
Though (pring fteps forth to wander o'er the wild,
Yet paffes me without one funny (mile:
Though moon, nor stars, nor all the beamy train
gein the blue serene, ere hang their lamps
To bless-thefe rayless orbs-yet am I bless'd
Beyond their power of blefling.-Mure, my heart,
O’er all thy treasures ! oh! with a niser's care,
Brood o'er the rich amount! Weep tears of joy,
To think thou 'rt monarch o'er a world of love!
Yes, she is mine!--the chose me from the throng;
Me, whom the frown of fate forbade to drink.
The rapture-swimming light of beauty's glance,
Forbade to pour che deep and lengthei'd gaze
Of tenderness--forbade to fondly dwell
On ev'ry gentle waving line of grace
That marks that angel form:-the seraph sinile, ,
The warm and mantling tinge, the funny locks
That break in wild profusion o’er the brow,
Throwing their softend fade--to me are loft.
I only hear thon 'rt fair—from others hear
Of all the bright perfections of thy face :-
Yet can I inward look and view thee there,
Glowing in all the finer charms of mind.
There will I gaze—there dwell in witching trance
On all thy truth, and singleness of heart.
Ah! lead me, dear one! to the craggy steep,
For now the sea-gale hurries o'er its brow
On freih’ning wing; and o’er the upland scenc
Steals the soft veil of eve. Lét airs of heav'n
Bathe faint form and thou, O most belov'd,
Give to my soul again the light of fong.
66 Awake, my love,” Pawlitski cries,
“ All nature 's now awake : The heavenly beams of your bright eyes
Make day still lovelier break. “ Sweet lark! go, warble at her ear,
With music break her sleep: Tell her, her faithful lover's here
Concemn'd to mourn and weep. u Tell the dear idol of this breast
No peace or joy is nice:
This beating heart will ne'er know reít,
Till bleft with Aravine."
The lark obedient spreads its wings
Beats at ber bow'r above:
In tenderest notes the message brisgs,
And teils his tale of love.
The beauteous maid sprang from her bed,
The casement open'd wide :
Again to hear the lark she sped,
Her lover she espied.
But, o ford lover! now prepare
Thy destiny to know :
Prepare thy foul for deep despair,
And heart-consuming woe.
See at her chamber-window ligy,
Your Aravine appears :
But grief fits settled in her eye,
Her face is drowad with tears,
Her cheek the rofy tents have fled,
The bioom of juy is
30ne : The beauteous lily hangs its head,
Woe-strick’n, pale and wan.
She cries, “ Pawlitfki, ever dear,
Take now my last farewell :
A tale of woe muft meet your ear,
My tongue can scarcely tell.