II.

Pure is the water in that crystal well;

But purer are thy guileless thoughts. With thee Religion loves in solitude to dwell,

And from the haunts of empty mirth to flee, Where boisterous laughter and unhallow'd glee

Chase the swift hours away. Thou hast not known Such scenes as these, and may'st thou never see

The fruit that springs from seed which Vice has sown : The looks of anguish, or the wretch's tears!

Thy gentle heart would doubt the truth,

That Passion soils the mind of Youth,

And strews with sharpest thorns the path of future years!

III.

The wild-flowers bloom around thee, and the air,
Fill'd with their odour, fans thy thoughtful brow;-
And wherefore thoughtful? Hath the demon Care
Sought even this sequester'd spot, where thou
From infancy hast dwelt? or hath love's vow,
By some fond youth, been whisper'd in thine ear?
And is he faithless, and hath left thee now?

Ah, cruel he! the flowers of hope to rear,
And rudely pluck them from their sacred soil,
Where they in infant beauty bloom'd;

And thus thy virgin bosom doom'd,

Unvisited by joy, through lingering life to toil!

IV.

No! thou art happy, and thy swain is true-
Some youthful shepherd on the bleak hill-side,
Whose love for thee perhaps since childhood grew;
Who deems thee fairest through earth's regions wide.
May happiness thy future years betide:

Healthy his flocks, and still unchanged his heart,
As when he promised to make thee his bride,
And bliss to thy young bosom did impart.
And now a smile steals o'er thy lovely face,
Chasing the pensive look away,

Lighting thine eyes with gladsome ray,

As some delightful scene thy memory doth embrace !

SONG.

O LAY me where the willow weeps,
Beside some murmuring stream,
Where Solitude her vigil keeps,
And lovers love to dream.

The green grass let my covering be, With the wild-flowers of Spring; And round my grave, on bush and tree, The birds my requiem sing.

There will I rest: in such a scene

In youth I loved to rove, When Nature threw her mantle green O'er meadow, glen, and grove.

And if, when clay returns to clay,
The soul on earth may dwell
From midnight hour till dawn of day,
As ancient legends tell,

I will return when Philomel
With music fills the night,

And the cold moon, o'er moor and dell,
Showers down her radiance bright.

O lay me where the willow weeps,
Beside some murmuring stream,
Where Solitude her vigil keeps,
And lovers love to dream.

SONNET.

NIGHT.

THE vault of heaven is clothed in robes of night,
Whereon a thousand starry diamonds beam,
And shed athwart the wide expanse a light,
Soft as the influence of a pleasing dream:

The moon hath not arisen, but a gleam

Of pensive twilight in the East appears,
Foretelling her approach;-and, from the North,
Where Winter, o'er the Arctic desert, rears

His icy throne, shoot transiently forth

Streams of bright beauty through the realms of space, Lighting, with cheerful smile, Night's sombre face.

Now from the willing mem'ry pass away

Thoughts of the earth; and Fancy wild may trace
The forms of angels in the Milky Way!