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That in some other way yon smoke
LET other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot ;
But thou art no such perfect thing :
Rejoice that thou art not ! heart.
Heed not tho' none should call thee fair O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats, free,
Whose veil is unremoved Into yon row of willows flit,
Till heart with heart in concord beats, l'pon that alder sit ;
And the lover is beloved. Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved That cannot be sustained ;
To scorn the declaration, If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
That sometimes I in thee have loved Headlong yon waterfall must come,
My fancy's own creation. Oh let it then be dumb
Imagination needs must stir : Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou Dear Maid, this truth believe, art now
Minds that have nothing to confer Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
Find little to perceive. Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Be pleased that nature made thee fit Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
To feed my heart's devotion, And stir not in the gale.
By laws to which all Forms submit
In sky, air, earth, and ocean.
How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! Is one of giant stature, who could dance
How bright that heaven-directed glance! Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
--Waft her to glory, wingèd Powers, Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine
Ere sorrow be renewed, To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
And intercourse with mortal hours Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Bring back a humbler mood ! Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
So looked Cecilia when she drew Such happiness as I have known to-day.
An Angel from his station ;
So looked; not ceasing to pursue
No sound here sweeps away the will
That gave it birth : in service meek
One upright arm sustains the cheek,
And one across the bosom lies--
That rose, and now forgets to rise,
Subdued by breathless harmonies
Of meditative feeling:
Mute strains from worlds beyond the skie
Through the pure light of female eyes,
Their sanctity revealing !
What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine
Through my very heart they shine :
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride ---Such change, and at the very door
Beholds her own bright beams Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. Reflected from the mountain's side 1806.
And from the headlong streams.
TO O Dearer far than light and life are dear, Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no
more! Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; While all the future, for thy purer soul, With “sober certainties" of love is blest. That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; Yet bear me up--else faltering in the rear Of a steep march : support me to the end. Peace settles where the intellect is meek, And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; Through Thee communion with that Love I
seek : The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds
the Creed. 1824.
VI. Yet how?-for I, if there be truth In the world's voice, was passing fair ; And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time : And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
VII. Unblest distinction ! showered on me To bind a lingering life in chains : All that could quit my grasp, or flee, Is gone ;- but not the subtle stains Fixed in the spirit ; for even here Can I be proud that jealous fear Of what I was remains.
VIII. A Woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent Of law and holiest sympathy, Detains me, doubtful of the event ; Great God, who feel'st for my distress, My thoughts are all that I possess, o keep them innocent !
IX. Farewell desire of human aid, Which abject mortals vainly court. By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, of fears the prey, of hopes the sport; Nought but the world-redeeming Cross Is able to supply my loss, My burthen to support.
X. Hark! the death-note of the year Sounded by the castle-clock ! From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear Stole forth, unsettled by the shock: But oft the woods renewed their green, Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen Reposed upon the block ! 1817.
LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
That struck perchance the farthest cone
OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. (When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is
unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert : unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians, The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interes 'ng work "Hearue's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high nur,hern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the northern lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.]
Born all too high, by wedlock raised
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
For once could have thee close to me, The stars, they were among my dreams, With happy heart I then would die, In rustling conflict through the skies,
And my last thought would happy be ; I heard, I saw the flashes drive,
But thou, dear Babe, art far away, And yet they are upon my eyes,
Nor shall I see another day. And yet I am alive;
1798. Before I see another day. Oh let my body die away!
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. My fire is dead : it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain:
In distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground, But they to me no joy can give,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet : Alone, I cannot fear to die.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 111.
And in his arms a Lamb he had. Alas! ye might have dragged me on
II. Another day, single one!
He saw me, and he turned aside, Too soon I yielded to despair ;
As if he wished himself to hide :
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away:
I followed him, and said, “My friend, That, afterwards, a little longer,
What ails you 2 wherefore weep you so?" My friends, I did not follow you !
-“Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, For strong and without pain I lay,
He makes my tears to flow. Dear friends, when ye were gone away. To-day I fetched him from the rock ; iv.
He is the last of all my flock. My Child! they gave thee to another,
III. A woman who was not thy mother.
When I was young, a single man, When from my arms my Babe they took,
And after youthful follies ran, On me how strangely did he look!
Though little given to care and thought, Through his whole body something ran, Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; A most strange working did I see ;
And other sheep from her 1 raised, -As if he strove to be a man,
As healthy sheep as you might see ; That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then I married, and was rich
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store. My little joy! my little pride!
IV. In two days more I must have died.
Year after year my stock it grew; Then do not weep and grieve for me ;
And from this one, this single ewe, I feel I must have died with thee.
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine á flock as ever grazed !
They throve, and we at home did thrive: Could I with thee a message send ;
---This lusty Lamb of all my store Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
Is all that is alive ;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.
V. Ye travel heavily and slow;
Six Children, Sir! had I to feed ; In spite of all my weary pain
Hard labour in a time of need! I'll look upon your tents again.
My pride was tamed, and in our grief -My fire is dead, and snowy white
I of the Parish asked relief. The water which beside it stood :
They said, I was a wealthy man ; The wolf has come to me to-night,
My sheep upon the uplands fed, And he has stolen away my food.
And it was fit that thence I took For ever left alone am I ;
Whereof to buy us bread. Then wherefore should I fear to die?
“Do this : how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' Young as I am, my course is run,
VI. I shall not see another sun;
I sold a sheep, as they had said, I cannot lift my limbs to know
And bought my little children bread, If they have any life or no.
And they were healthy with their food; My poor forsaken Child, if I
For me-it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for
There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their
We could do what we liked with the land, it
was ours : For me it was a woeful day.
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its
But now we are strangers, go early or late;
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in!
When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's
A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,
“What ails you, that you must come creeping Were but the bitter struggle past.
With our pastures about us, we could not be
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that
We slighted them all,-and our birth-right was
Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son
Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to
that strain !
Think of evening's repose when our labour was
The sabbath's return, and its leisure's soft
And in sickness, if night had been sparing of
How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood,
Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of
That besprinkled the field : 'twas like youth in
Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a
And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a
That follows the thought-We've no land in the
Save six feet of earth where out forefathers lie !
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
burthen of gold,
in his hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,-- we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"
Where art thou, my beloved Son,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!
THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
BY MY SISTER.
The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song ; He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty Love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright Weeping for him when no one knew.
On the window pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed ?-
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, Or thou upon a desert thrown
O teach me calm submission to thy Will! Inheritest the lion's den;
The Child she mourned had overstepped the
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light
To all the Little ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsafed-a light that warmed and
Those several qualities of heart and mind
Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye,
And not hers only, their peculiar charms
Unfolded, --beauty, for its present self,
And for its promises to future years,
Have you espied upon a dewy lawn
A pair of Leverets each provoking each
To a continuance of their fearless sport,
Two separate Creatures in their several gifts
Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all
That Nature prompts them to display, their XI.
looks, Beyond participation lie
Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,
An undistinguishable style appears
And character of gladness, as if Spring