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Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.-HORACE DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene,

While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again ;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,

And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,

And still indulge my wonted theme,
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before ; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy,

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring : But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell ; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh, may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.
Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same.

Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue !

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,

And caves their sullen roar inclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull’d by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; But now without a theme to choose,

The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown :

E is a wife, and a mother, And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which rolld on me,

Can now no more my love recall :
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee;

For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beam alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As niany a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ;

And then with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of soul shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.


OA! had my fate been join'd with thine,

As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not then been mine,

For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any ; But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid !

"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measuresIf thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :

This cheek now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had dush'd,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, -

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys :

To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavour,And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know that thou art lost for ever.

I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride

Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me :
Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be ?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss :
Truth !-wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?
I loved-but those I love are gone;

Had friends-my early friends are fled :
How cheerless feels the heart alone

When all its former hopes are dead !
Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart—the heart-is lonely still.
How dull ! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

• Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous joy is but a name.
And woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall !
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle

to her nest !
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.*

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climb'd thy steep summit, O Morven, of snow!+
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, I
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ;

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center'd in you !
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,-

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ?
But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild :
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,

From mountain to mountain I bounded along;

" And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove ; for then would I fly away, and be at rest."-Psalm lv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

† Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. “ Gormal of snow," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is hy no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-Bourd, &c., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the sturm, perfectly secure from its effects.

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