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Her wing shall the eagle flap
o'er the false-hearted;
ere life be parted:
by his grave ever; blessing shall hallow it
never, O never!
SIR W. SCOTT
OCTOBER winds, wibiting breath,
now nip the leaf that's yellow fading; nae gowans glint upon the green,
alas! they're co'er'd wi’ winter's cleeding. As through the woods I musing gang,
nae birdies cheer mé frae the bushes, save little Robin's lanely sang,
wild warbling where the burnie gushes. The sun is jogging down the brae,
dimly through the mist he's shining, and cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,
as day resigns his throne to e'ening. Oft let me walk at twilight grey,
to view the face of dying nature, till spring again with mantle green delights the heart o’ilka creature.
MEMORY, celestial maid,
who glean'st the flow'rets cropt by time, and, suffering not a leaf to fade,
preserv'st the blossoms of our prime: bring, bring those moments to my mind, when life was new, and all was kind; and bring that garland to my sight,
with which my favour'd crook was bound: and bring that wreath of roses bright,
which then my festive temples crown'd,
and once more to my ear convey
YETsemnul Beauty, thou shalt be
thou shalt be
A faith so bright,
so firm, that lovers might
and crowned thy name
whilst the shrill voice of Fame
This thou hast lost;
that my just aims were crost,
and the largest lamp is lit;
and the kid turns on the spit;
around the firebrands close;
and the lads are shaping bows;
and trims his helmet's plume; when the goodwife's shuttle merrily
goes flashing through the loom;
with weeping and with laughter
still is the story told,
TRAVELLED among unknown men
in lands beyond the sea;
what love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
nor will I quit thy shore
to love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
the joy of my desire;
beside an English fire.
the bowers where Lucy played;
LOVE AND MUSIC
HAT woke the buried sound that lay
in Memnon's harp of yore?
along the Nile's green shore?
and not the lightning's fire;
this, this awoke the lyre.
thus music forth on life-
the truant sounds of strife?
Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,
not e'en the trumpet's hour; love is the gifted and the strong
to wake that music's power!
when the sun
his flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
you haste away so soon;
will go with you along.
we have as short a Spring;
as you, or any thing.
Life is a dark, tumultuous stream,
with many a care and sorrow foul, yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem
that it can yield a limpid bowl.
Think not that stream will backward flow,
or cease its destined course to keep; as soon the blazing spark shall glow
beneath the surface of the deep.
Believe not Fate at thy command
will grant a meed she never gave; as soon the airy tower shall stand, that's built upon a passing wave.
J. D. CARLYLE
WIFTER far than summer's flight,
swifter far than happy night,
art thou come and gone:
as the earth when leaves are dead,
I am left lone, alone.