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LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF A

LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

Book! as fair S

forms the varied line

Sad sighs or sweetest sympathies are thine
From pity's lids the glittering tear-drops part,
Or joy's warm surges eddy round the heart,
In louder tones convulsive anguish mourns,
Gay Satyrs dance, and laughter roars by turns.
Book! o'er her desk should whispering sorrows lean,
Or melancholy guide her hand, unseen,

Erase the blotted leaves, with gall impressed,

And soothe with softer notes her gentle breast;
Light round her chair when mirth fantastic moves
With tip-toe graces linked and laughing loves,
O! bid thy page the sweet effusion drink,
Smooth glide the pen, and glossy shine the ink.
Book! may no canker, no corroding worm,
Or mildew damp thy sacred folds deform;
Be thine to register, in folds sublime,
To the last hour of all-subduing time,
How peace round S―

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darts his arrowy rays,

A silver halo circling beauty's blaze.

Anon.

THE DUELLIST, AN ELEGY.

⚫ Stranger! who sleeps in yonder nameless grave? I saw thee pause and linger o'er the tomb, Where to the gale those thorns their branches wave, And evening deepens on that yew-tree's gloom.

There sleeps my friend,' the pensive stranger cried: 'O'er the blank stone have twenty winters past : Yet, as the gale amid that yew-tree sighed, Methought again I heard him breathe his last.

Yes! for I saw the last convulsive start,

That spoke the struggle closed of life and death : Felt the last pulse that trembled from his heart; And heard the sigh that told his parting breath.

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Fixed in his breast the adverse weapon stood'→ Stranger! when died he in his country's cause? Blest be the man whose pure and generous blood Flows for his country's liberty and laws!' . ́

O why the grief of other days recall?
Alas! he died not for his country's sake.

Wielding unhallowed arms 'twas his to fall:
'Twas his in death his country's laws to break.

One word, one careless word, escaped his tongue; One careless word, from guile, from anger free. Blood, blood must cleanse the unsuspected wrongMeet on the heath, beside the lonely tree'―

So spake the foe; nor, parting, did he hide The muttered threat, nor glance of scorn behind. Too well my friend the glance of scorn descried; And thus explored his own uncertain mind.

• What shall I do? custom! thy tyrant sway,
To laws of earth or heaven untaught to yield,
And thine, whose nod the brave, the base, obey,
Ideal honour! urge me to the field.

That field perchance consigns thee to the dead, Affection cries, forbear, forbear the strife; Think on thy childless mother's hoary head: Think on thy orphan babes, thy widowed wife!

'Yes, throbs of nature ! through my inmost soul, From nerve to nerve your strong vibrations dartHark, duty speaks-Rebellious pride control,

And bow to heaven's behest the swelling heart.

• What though, be witness heaven! nor vengeful hate

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How can I guiltless tread the brink of fate,

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And dare the grief from whence is no return?

Though from his breast who braves me to the fight,
Guarding my own, my sword aloof I wave;

What praise, while yet against his lawless might
I stake the sacred trust my Maker gave?

'How mid assembled angels shall I dare
For judgment throned the Son of God to see;

Afraid for him the sting of scorn to bear,

Who bore the sting of scorn and death for me

And is it then so deep a crime to die,

?

Shielding from taint my yet unspotted name?Away, vain sophistry! a Christian I,

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And fear at duty's call to risk my

fame?

Yet how, proud foe, thy cold insulting eye, Shunning the offered combat, shall I face? Where hide my head while slander's envious cry, Roused at thy bidding, trumpets my disgrace ?

My native woodlands shall I seek, the sneer
Even in their shades on every brow to meet ?

Or haunt the town, in every wind to hear

'There skulks the coward,' murmur through the street?

'What, live to infamy, of fools the scorn,

The dastard's butt, the bye-word of the brave? No: farewell doubt!'-Beneath the waving thorn, Go, learn his fate at yonder nameless grave.

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Stranger! if trials like to his are thine,

Hark to the voice that whispers from his sod. Shame dost thou dread? the shame of sin decline : Talk'st thou of valour? dare to fear thy God.'

Gisborne.

EPITAPH,

By LADY FRANCES SCOTT, now LADY DOUGLAS,

On a Skeleton found in Dalkeith Park, at the time when the Duke of Buccleugh was raising his Fencible Regiment.

Reader! the mortal part is here interred
Of one whose name the poet never heard ;
Thou mayest indulge imagination here,
And shed for fancied woes a generous tear.
If emulation ever fill thy mind,

Deem him a warrior of the bravest kind,

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