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ROSLINE CASTLE.

Ar dead of night, the hour, when courts
In gay fantastic pleasures move,
And haply Mira joins their sports,
And hears some newer, richer, love;
To Rosline's ruins I repair,

A solitary wretch forlorn ;
To mourn uninterrupted there,

My hapless love, her hapless scorn.

No sound of joy disturbs my strain,
No hind is whistling on the hill;
No hunter winding o'er the plain;
No maiden singing at the rill.
Esk, murm'ring thro' the dusky pines,
Reflects the moon's mist-mantled beam;

And fancy chills, where'er it shines,

To see pale ghosts obscurely gleam.

Not so the night, that in thy halls

Once, Rosline, danc'd in joy along;
Where owls now scream along thy walls,
Resounded mirth-inspiring song:
Where bats now rest their smutty wings,
The joyous feast was wont to flow;
And beauty danc'd in graceful rings,
And princes sat, where nettles grow.

What now avails, how great, how gay,
How fair, how fine, their matchless dames!
There sleeps their undistinguish'd clay,

And e'en the stones have lost their names. And yon gay crowds must soon expire! Unknown, unprais'd, their fair-one's name: Not so the charms that verse inspire, Encreasing years encrease her fame.

Oh Mira! what is state or wealth?
The great can never love like me;
Wealth adds not days, nor quickens health ;
Then wiser thou, come, happy be;
Come, and be mine in this sweet spot,
Where Esk rolls clear his little wave,
We'll live-and Esk shall, in a cot,
See joys that Rosline never gave.

London Review.

VERSES

SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THOMSON.

THOU, whose tender, serious eyes
Expressive speak the mind I love;
The gentle azure of the skies,

The pensive shadows of the grove.

O mix their beauteous beams with mine,
And let us interchange our hearts;

Let all their sweetness on me shine,

Pour'd through my soul be all their darts.

Ah! 'tis too much! I cannot bear

At once so soft, so keen a ray :

In pity, then, my lovely fair,

O turn those killing eyes away!

But what avails it to conceal

One charm, where nought but charms we see?

Their lustre then again reveal,

And let me, Mira, die of thee.

Evening Mail.

SONG OF A SPIRIT.

IN the sightless air I dwell,

On the sloping sun-beams play; Delve the cavern's inmost cell,

Where never yet did daylight stray

Dive beneath the green sea waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;
Skim ev'ry shore that Neptune laves,

From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force

Above the wide earth's shadowy zone; Follow the day-star's flaming course

Through realms of space to thought unknown:

And listen to celestial sounds

That swell the air unheard of men,

As I watch my nightly rounds

O'er woody steep, and silent glen.

Under the shade of waving trees,
On the green bank of fountain clear,
At pensive eve I sit at ease,
While dying music murmurs near.

And oft on point of airy clift,

That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift, And twilight veil the liquid plain.

Then, when the breeze has sunk away,
And ocean scarce is heard to lave,
For me the sea nymphs softly play
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave.

Their dulcet shells! I hear them now,
Slow swells the strain upon mine ear;
Now faintly falls-now warbles low,
Till rapture melts into a tear.

The ray that silvers o'er the dew,
And trembles through the leafy shade,
And tints the scene with softer hue,
Calls me to rove the lonely glade ;

Or hie me to some ruin'd tower,
Faintly shewn by moonlight beam,
Where the lone wand'rer owns my power
In shadows dire that substance seem,

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe,
And pausing silence makes more dread;
In music breathing from below

Sad solemn strains, that wake the dead.

Unseen I move-unknown am fear'd!
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave;
And oft by bards my voice is heard
To die along the gales of eve.

Mrs. Radcliffe.

STANZAS TO LOVE.

TELL me, love, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,
And the swift wing of time bring the balsam of rest?

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