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I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, *

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness'd before :
Ah! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my lot;

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew;
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot ;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;t
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow ;
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,

Will Mary be there to receive me?-ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!

Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu !
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, -.

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?

OH! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
But friendship can vary her gentle dominion ;

The attachment of years in a moment expires;
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow :
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now.

• " Breasting the lofty surge."-SHAKSPEARE. The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises Dear Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

+ Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.


No more with affection shall memory blending,

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,

And what would be justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you-

The few whom I love I can never upbraid-
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you,

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,

With me no corroding resentment shall live : My bosom is calm’d by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,

If danger demanded, were wholly your own ;
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance,

Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew,-but away with the vain retrospection !

The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present, we part, - I will hope not for ever;

For time and regret will restore you at last :
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,-

I ask no atonement, but days like the past.


“ Tu semper amoris Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."-VAL, FLAC.

FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow,
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers

On mortals here below.
The recollection seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I've known,

When distant far from you :
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,

And sigh again, adieu !
My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,

Those scenes regretted ever ;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,

And we may meet-ah! never !

As when one parent spring supplies.
Two streams which from one fountain rise,

Together join’d in vain ;

soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,

Till mingled in the main !
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow,

Nor mingle as before :
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,

And both shall quit the shore.
Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,

Now flow in different channels :
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,

And shine in fashion's annals ;
'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,

Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard !
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,

That he, who sang before all,
He who the lore of love expanded,-
By dire reviewers should be branded,

As void of wit and moral. *
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine !

Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

And critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ;
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vex'd,

I really will not fight them.t
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely-sounding shell

Of such a young beginner. • These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon.

+ A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants ?

He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,

A very harden'd sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due :

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right!

My muse admires digression.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state ;-

May regal smiles attend you !
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,

If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you ;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you !
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!

May no delights decoy !
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh ! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,

And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-

Be still as you are now.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear ;
Wbilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,

To prove a prophet here.



SPOT of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, the soft and verdant sod;

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