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Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

LIII. Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave High towering, sail along the horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size; And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts risé.


Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on the vernal day, Ev'n then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclined,

Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly.

To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined, Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!


Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn !
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobwebs he shall twine;
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn,
And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine;
Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton


For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd :
Song was his favorite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute;
His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute:
Of elegance as yet he took no care;

For this of time and culture is the fruit;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,
Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,
By chance, or search, was offer'd to his view,
fle scann'd with curious and romantic eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old,
Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry.
At last, though long by penury control'd,
And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.


Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms are bound From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd; Pure rills, through vales of verdure, warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'er flow.*


Here pause, my Gothie lyre, a little while.
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim;
But on this verse if MONTAGUE should smile,
New strains erelong shall animate thy frame;
And her applause to me is more than fame;
For still with truth accords her taste refined.
At lucre or renown let others aim,

I only wish to please the gentle mind,

Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human



Spring and autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and flowers-Scheffer's History of Lapland, p. 16.







OF chance or change O let not man complain; Else shall he never, never cease to wail: For, from th' imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel th' assault of Fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale, And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And, where th' Atlantic rolls, wide continents have bloom'd.*


But sure to foreign climes we need not
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet, at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine :

But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,
Of candor, love, or sympathy divine,

Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame, is mine.

See Plato's Timeus.


So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here, without reluctance, change my lay, And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.


"Perish the lore that deadens young desire," Is the soft tenor of my song no more.

Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy; But now and then the shades of life explore, Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.


Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows. The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But, ah! it withers in the chilling hour. Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower, And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.


And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime;

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