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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,
Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
And when thou climb'st the milky way,
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;
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!
TO A FRIEND,
WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR IF HE WAS NOT TIRED OF
BY MR. J. M. LACEY.
Author of "The Farm House," &c.
Sings, as he soars sublime to heav'n,
A gilded cage by mortal giv❜n.
Does not prefer his horrid doom
To scenes where peaceful pleasures bloom!
To all thy question's hated boldness;
Unmingled with thy native coldness.
The whole of wisdom's treasur'd stories.
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!
The melting kiss, love's truest token!
Is myst'ry most supremely strange ;-
And for philosophy exchange!
And sooth me for each anguish'd minute.
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;
When I have never felt its thrilling
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!
That love and beauty gave me ever;
ON THE MARRIAGE, OF MISS F. TO MR. PAIN.
WHAT idle schemes fond nymphs pursue,