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The soft blooms of summer are fair to the eye,
Where brightly the soft silver Medway glides by;
And rich are the colours which autumn adorn,
Its gold-checkered leaves, and its billows of com.

But dearer to me is the pale lonely rose,
Whose blossoms in winter's dark season unclose,
Which smiles in the region of winter's stern blast,
And smooths the rough present by signs of the past.

And thus when around us affliction's dark power
Eclipses the sunshine of life's glowing hour,
While drooping, deserted, in sorrow we bend,
O sweet is the presence of one faithful frfend.

The crowds whom we smiled with, when gladness was ours,
Are summer's bright blossoms, and autumn's gay stores;
But the friend on whose breast we in sorrow repose,
That friend is the winter's lone beautiful rose.



Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That showest the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like thou art to joy remembered well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant; clear, but, oh, how cold!



Tbc woodman lifts towards thee his thoughtful eve,
Pauses—and wonders as he passes by;
. And village girls their evening walks prolong,
With hearts enamoured of thy love-taught song.

Thou fairy amorist! in the forest singing,
How sweetly wild is thy melodious strain!

Varied in accents, tremulously flinging

Fragments of wonder on my dizzy brain.
Spirit of light! the music of thy song

Descends upon me, even as a dream;
I pause enchanted, and would fain prolong ,

Each magic note of thy impassioned theme.
Where art thou sitting ?—in the branches high

Of yon old oak, whose flower-embroidered trunk Rests on a soft mat where the harebells lie,

Its spreading roots 'neath mossy herbage sunk? Minstrel of heaven! is that thy leafy bower,

Where, like the queen of beauty, thou dost shade Thy gentle self in this voluptuous hour,

As in a veil of innocence arrayed ?— The feathered choir to rest their wings have made A favourite haunt near thee, and mute, and fond, They listen, scattered in the boughs beyond. Hush! 'tis the mountain echoes that descend To wander thro' the trees !—they softly blend With every pause an answer so divine, They emulate, sweet bird! that gentle song of thine.— Children of air! prolong the flowery tale,—

Fill every bough, touch every living leaf, Let soft persuasive melody prevail,

That every heart, forgetful of its grief,

Like mine, exalting for an hour may be,
Uplifted on the wings of wildest ecstacy!



"Here, (at Brereton, in Cheshire,) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water ft* several days." Camden's Britannia.

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak

On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer-sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief

By an arrow in the fight;
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,

At the crashing of its might!

And the startled deer to their coverts flew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain's dew.

Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep

For the forest's pride o'erthr,own;
An old man's tears lie far too deep
To be poured for this alone!
But by that sign too well I know,
That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye—
Well may I weep I for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die I
But on his brow the mark is set—
Oh! could my life redeem him yet'.

He bounded by me as I gazed

Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seemed like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine!
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life—but he must not die!

He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water's side,

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