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Doth often through the silence ring
In sweet, shrill, merry jargoning-
So that the Orphans almost think
They are lying again on the broomy brink
Of their native Dee-and scarcely know
If the change hath been to bliss or woe,
As, 'mid that music wild, they seem
To start back to life from a fairy-dream.
So all that most beautiful is above
Sends down to their rest its soul of love;
Nor have they in their bliss forgot
The walls, roof, and door, of their native
cot;

Nor the bed in which their Parents died,
And they themselves slept side by side!
They know that Heaven hath brought them
here,

To shield them from the clouds of fear;
And therefore on their sinless breasts
When they go to sleep the Bible rests,
The Bible that they read of old,
Beside their lambs in the mountain-fold,
Unseen but by one gracious eye,
That blest their infant-piety!

On what doth the wondering shepherd

gaze,

As o'er Loch-Ken the moonlight plays,
And in the Planet's silvery glow,

Far shines the smooth sand, white as snow?
In Heaven or Lake there is no breeze,
Yet a glimmering Sail that shepherd sees,
Swanlike steer on its stately way
Into the little Crescent bay;
Now jocundly its fair gleam rearing,
And now in darkness disappearing,
Till 'mid the water-lilies riding

It hangs, and to the green shore gliding
Two lovely Creatures silently
Sit down beneath the star-light sky,
And look around, in deep delight,
On all the pure still smiles of night.
As they sit in beauty on the shore,
The shepherd feels he has seen before
The quiet of their heavenly eyes:
'Tis the Orphans come back from Paradise,
Edith and Nora! They now return,
When this woe-worn Land hath ceased to

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And a dreamy thought, as the sounds depart, Of Edith and Nora comes o'er his heart.

At Morning's first pure silent glow,
A band of simple shepherds go

To the Orphans' Cot, and there they behold
The Dove so bright, with its plumes of gold,
And the radiant Lamb, that used to glide
So spirit-like by fair Edith's side.
Fair Creatures! that no more were seen
On the sunny thatch or the flowery green,
Since the lovely Sisters had flown away,
And left their Cottage to decay!
Back to this world returned again,
They seem in sadness and in pain,
And coo and bleat is like the breath
Of sorrow mourning over death.

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The motion of their now still feet!
The mourners are leaving the buried clay,
To the holy hush of the Sabbath-day,
When a Lamb comes sadly bleating by,
And a Dove soft wavering through the sky.
And both lie down without a sound,
In beauty on the funeral mound!
What may these lovely creatures be?
-Two sisters who died in infancy,
And thus had those they loved attended.
And been by those they loved befriended!
Whate'er fair Creatures! might be their
birth,

Never more were they seen on earth;
But to young and old belief was given
That with Edith and Nora they went to
Heaven.

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HERE have I found at last a home of peace To hide me from the world; far from its noise,

To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth,

And link'd to human beings by the bond
Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim
Than perishable joy, and through the calm
That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude,
Can hear the billows of eternity,
And hear delighted. Many a mystic gleam,
Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness
Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light
Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair

Moon

Hath risen in the sky. And oh! ye dreams,
That to such spiritual happiness could shape
The lonely reveries of my boyish days,
Are ye at last fulfill'd? Ye fairy-scenes,
That to the doubting gaze of prophecy
Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green,
Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves
Of more than rainbow-lustre, where the
swing

Of woods primeval darken'd the still depth
Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian

hills

Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar Sullen and far from mountain-cataract

Was heard amid the silence, like a thought
Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul
When swarming with delights;-Ye fairy-
scenes!

Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart
In living beauty, with adoring song
I bid you hail! and with as holy love
As ever beautified the eye of saint
Hymning his midnight-orisons, to you
I consecrate my life,-till the dim stain,
Left by those wordly and unhallow'd
thoughts

That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed,
My spirit travel like a summer-sun,
Itself all glory, and its path all joy.

Nor will the musing penance of the soul, Performed by moonlight, or the setting sun, To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks

A parent's language, and, in tones as mild As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast, Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt,

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Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful. His blessings sanctify even senseless things, And the wide world in cheerful loveliness Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his Returns to him its joy. The summer-air, soul,

Stirs with its own delight: the verdant earth,

Like beauty waking from a happy dream, Lies smiling: each fair cloud to him appears And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea, A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace; A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest Linking his soul to outward Nature fair, The man who thus beholds the golden chain Full of the living God! And where, ye

haunts

Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart,
That yearns for high communion with its
Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you?
God,
The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all
the earth

Linger delighted here: here guilt might

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And oh! if in those elevated hopes That lean on virtue,-in those high resolves That bring the future close upon the soul, And nobly dare its dangers;—if in joy Yea! Faith and Adoration!—if the soul Whose vital spring is more than innocence, Of man may trust to these,—and they are strong,

Strong as the prayer of dying penitent,— My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou! Oh Mighty One! whose saving love has stolen

On the deep peace of moon-beams to my

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Glides in still beauty through unnumbered That slumber in the soul, like sweetest

stars,

Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls.

With humble pride I bless the Holy One For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft In seasons of depression,-when the lamp Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts

Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul,When doubts and fears withheld the timid eye

From scanning scenes to come, and a deep

sense

Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain,
How oft have I remember'd that a world
Of glory lay around me, that a source
Of lofty solace lay in every star,
And that no being need behold the sun,
And grieve, that knew Wao hung him in
the sky.

Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief
To airy joy and seeing that the mind
Of man, though still the image of his God,
Lean'd by his will on various happiness,
I felt that all was good; that faculties,
Though low, might constitute, if rightly
used,

True wisdom; and when man hath here attain'd

The purpose of his being, he will sit Near Merey's throne, whether his course hath been

Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing

Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze.

Then ever shall the day that led me here Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see, Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun That made Winander one wide wave of gold, When first in transport from the mountain

top

sounds Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven

On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant,
Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts.
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee.
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul
With a dear home-toned whisper,—if thy

face

E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of
light
From our own cottage-hearth;-O Mary!
then

My overpowered spirit will recline
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become,
O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee.

Then will the earth,-that oft-times to
the eye

Of solitary lover seems o'erhung
With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles
With ineffectual beauty on his heart,-
Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land
Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams
Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn
My vision from the glories of the scene
To read them in thine eyes; and hidden
grace,

That slumbers in the crimson clouds of Even,
Will reach my spirit through their varying
light,
Though viewless in the sky. Wandering
with thee,

A thousand beauties never seen before
Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul,
Even in those fields where each particular
tree

Was look'd on as a friend,-where I had been
Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens.

Nor, 'mid the quiet of reflecting bliss Will the faint image of the distant world

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One long, deep, heavy sigh!
How wild and dim this Life appears!
The images of former years
When o'er our eyes, half-clos'd in tears,
Are faintly glimmering by!
As on the sea-beach wave on wave
And still forgotten while they go,
Dissolves at once in snow.
Upon the blue and silent sky
And like a dream are gone!
The amber clouds one moment lie,
On the lake's bosom bright as they,
Though beautiful the moon-beams play
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away
We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell,
They cease! and the soul is a silent cell,
And we wish they ne'er may fade-
Where music never played.
Dream follows dream through the long night-
Each lovelier than the last-
hours,
But ere the breath of morning-flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past.
Whose smiles of love and kindness speak,
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Glides by us on this earth-
Where shone the face we loved so well
While in a day we cannot tell
In sadness or in mirth.

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

FIRST DREAM.

SWEET Village! on thy pastoral hill
Arrayed in sunlight sad and still,
As if beneath the harvest-moon
Thy noiseless homes were sleeping!

It is the merry month of June, And creatures all of air and earth Should now their holiday of mirth With dance and song be keeping. But, loveliest Village! silent thou,

Seemed water changed to snow.
Beauty lies spread before my sight,
But grief-like shadows dim its light,
And all the scene appears

Like a church-yard when a friend is dying,

As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow, In more than earthly stillness lying,

When light is faintly breaking,
And Midnight's voice afar is lost,
Like the wailing of a wearied ghost,
The shades of earth forsaking.
'Tis not the day to Scotia dear,

A summer-sabbath mild and clear!
Yet from her solemn burial-ground
The small kirk-steeple looks around,
Enshrouded in a calm

Profound as fills the house of prayer,
Ere from the band of virgins fair
Exhales the choral-psalm.

A sight so steeped in perfect rest
Is slumbering not on nature's breast
In the smiles of earthly day!
'Tis a picture floating down the sky,
By fancy framed in years gone by,
And mellowing in decay!

That thought is gone!-the Village still
With deepening quiet crowns the hill,
Its low green roofs are there!
In soft material beauty beaming,
As in the silent hour of dreaming
They hung embowered in air!

Is this the day when to the mountains The happy shepherds go,

And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains
Their flocks made white as snow?
Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy,
With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy,
Gone tripping up the brae?

Till far behind their town doth stand,
Like an image in sweet Fairy-Land,
When the Elves have flown away!
-O sure if aught of human breath
Within these walls remain,

Thus deepening in the hush of death,
"Tis but some melancholy crone,
Who sits with solemn eyes
Beside the cradle all alone,
And lulls the infant with a strain
Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

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And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name Comes floating o'er my soul! Although thy beauty still survive, One look hath changed the whole. The gayest village of the gay Beside thy own sweet river, Wert thou on week- or sabbath-day! So bathed in the blue light of joy, As if no trouble could destroy Peace doomed to last for ever. Now in the shadow of thy trees Still lovely in the tainted breeze, The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies. And broods, as in despite

Of uncomplaining lifelessness,

On the troops of silent shades that press Into the church-yard's cold recess, From that region of delight.

Last summer from the school-house-door. When the glad play-bell was ringing, What shoals of bright-haired elves would

pour,

Like small waves racing on the shore,
In dance of rapture singing!
Oft by yon little silver well,
Now sleeping in neglected cell,
The village-maid would stand,
While resting on the mossy bank
With freshened soul the traveller drank
The cold cup from her hand;
Haply some soldier from the war,
Who would remember long and far
That Lily of the Land.

And still the green is bright with flowers,
And dancing through the sunny hours,
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers
On a sudden wafted by,

Obedient to the changeful air,
And proudly feeling they are fair,
Glide bird and butterfly.

But where is the tiny hunter-rout
That revelled on with dance and shout
Against their airy prey?
Alas! the fearless linnet sings,
And the bright insect folds its wings
Upon the dewy flower that springs
Above these children's clay.
And if to yon deserted well
Some solitary maid,

As she was wont at eve, should go-
There silent as her shade

She stands a while-then sad and slow
Walks home, afraid to think

Of many a loudly-laughing ring

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