WRITTEN IN AUTUMN, 1811.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

How lonely is this wildered scene,

When silence, from her vault so blue, Steals soft o'er Teviot's mountains green,

To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!

All hail ye hills, whose towering height,

Like shadows scoop the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night!

Dread traveller of immensity!

Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!

Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale;

Broad pennon of the king of Heaven!

Art thou the flag of woe and death

From angel's ensign-staff unfurl❜d? Art thou the standard of his wrath,

Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?

No, from thy pure, pellucid beam,

That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem;

Fair herald of th' eternal throne !

Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
And streaming locks so lovely pale;
peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven I bid thee hail!

Or

Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought those polar paths again?
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ?

And when thou climb'st the milky way,
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray,
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.

Oh, on thy rapid prow to glide!

To sail the boundless skies with thee! And plough the twinkling stars aside,

Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea!

To brush the embers from the sun;
The icicles from off the pole;
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!

Stranger of heaven! O let thine eye

Smile on a wild enthusiast's dream! Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient beam.

And long, long, may thy silver ray

Our northern vault at eve adorn; Then, wheeling to the east away, Sweep the gray portals of the morn!

7

TO A FRIEND,

WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR IF HE WAS NOT TIRED OF
WRITING ON LOVE AND BEAUTY.

BY MR. J. M. LACEY.

Author of "The Farm House," &c.

TIRED
IRED of Love!-Of Beauty tired!
Art thou a man, who thus can ask it?
Bid misers say, with hoarding fir'd,
Whether they hate each hidden casket.
Go ask the bird, who, high in air,

Sings, as he soars sublime to heav'n,
Whether he would not rather share

A gilded cage by mortal giv❜n.
Go ask the toiling slave, if he

Does not prefer his horrid doom
To home, and joy, and liberty;

To scenes where peaceful pleasures bloom!
"No!" they would answer.-I say, no,

To all thy question's hated boldness;
Long may I own Love's gentle glow,

Unmingled with thy native coldness.
For, oh! its thrill is worth, to me,

The whole of wisdom's treasur'd stories.
Though bound by love, I'd not be free
For all the world's united glories!

To love, and to be lov'd again;

To know, that, though the world may frown, One gentle heart will sooth thy pain,

Is dearer than a monarch's crown!
And, oh! how dear the whisper'd thought,
The dulcet answer softly spoken,
The timid sigh, with feeling fraught,

The melting kiss, love's truest token!
To me, how beauty's charms can tire,

Is myst'ry most supremely strange ;-
Charms which a Stoic might admire,

And for philosophy exchange!
The bright-blue eye's celestial gleam;
Such charmful lustre is there in it,
To me an orb of light would seem,

And sooth me for each anguish'd minute.
The brow where never wrinkle came,

Where undivided peace reposes; The cheek illum'd by Virtue's flame,

And beaming with her brightest roses. The lip, whose murmurs ask protection,

Or whence sweet melodies are stealing; The breast,-soft throne of fond affection

Where throbs, inhum'd, the heart of feeling: The angel arm, and fingers fair,

When o'er the maze of music straying, Striking each chord divinely rare,

As gay or pensive themes are playing: All, all are dear!—and whilst I live,

Still may they warm this breast of mine; Life without love no charm can give,

For wanting that man must repine!

Then ask me not to tell, again,

If I am tir'd of love and beauty;
I worship both, nor want, nor pain,
Could tempt me from so dear a duty.
Nor think I coldly sing of love

When I have never felt its thrilling
It has been mine its joys to prove,

To feel its griefs my bosom filling: And I have own'd bright beauty's pow'r, Have mark'd her blue-eye's brilliant beaming, Have shar'd her sad, her happy hour,

And press'd the lip with nectar teeming!
And can I then forget the blisses

That love and beauty gave me ever;
The smiles, the tears, the frowns, the kisses?
Never, my chilling friend, oh, never!

IMPROMPTU

ON THE MARRIAGE, OF MISS F. TO MR. PAIN.

WHAT idle schemes fond nymphs pursue,
When they submit to Hymen's chain!
Here's F- for instance, what's her view,
Whose pleasure, all must flow from Pain?

*DR. RUSSELL.