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In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled
The present happiness, and promised joy
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for one; for she had poured
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord,
And desolate consort—vainly wert thou wad!
The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust
The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
Our children should obey her child, and blessed
Her, and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed
Like stars to shepherd's eyes; 'twas but a meteor beamed.




How strange is the course that a Christian must steer?

How perplexed is the path he must tread? The hope of his happiness rises from fear,

And his life he receives from the dead.

His fairest pretensions must wholly be waved,

And his best resolutions be crost;
Nor can he expect to be perfectly saved,

Till he finds himself utterly lost.

When all this is done, and his heart is assured

Of the total remission of sins; When his pardon is signed, and his peace is procured',

From that moment his conflict begins.



I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,

And bear the marks upon a blushing face Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose; But being tried, it dies upon the lip, Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip: Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. Few Frenchmen of this evil have complained; It seems as if we Britons were ordained, By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, To fear each other, fearing none beside. The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, Self-searching with an introverted eye, Concealed within an unsuspected part, The vainest corner of our own vain heart: For ever aiming at the world's esteem, Our self-importance ruins its own scheme; In other eyes our talents rarely shown, Become at length so splendid in our own, We dare not risk them into public view, Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.



Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now, Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night

Will return with to-morrow to brighten ray brow; No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers

Is always the first to be touched by the thorns! But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;

May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile,

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!

The thread of our life would be dark, heaven knows,

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined, And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind: But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest,

Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.

But send round the bowl—while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,

That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline!



O heard ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail 1'
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
'Why speak ye no word ?—said Glenara the stern!

'And tell me, I charge you I ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?'

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