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Till murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill.



AUTUMN departs ---from Gala’s fields no more
Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer ;
Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,
No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear,
The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,
And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain;
On the waste hill no forms of life appear,
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train,
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scatter'd


Deem'st thou, these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still,
Lov'st thou, through Autumn's fading realms to stray,
To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,
To listen to the wood's expiring lay,
To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,
To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,
And moralize on mortal joy and pain ?-
Oh! if such scenes thou loy'st, scorn not the minstrel



The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dewdrop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush,--the flower is dry.


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Lo! at the couch, where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps.

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy,
“ Sleep, image of thy father,--sleep, my boy ;
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh, that rends thy father's heart and mine.
Bright, as his manly sire, the son shall be
In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he !
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past,
With many a smile my


repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. And say, when, summon’d from this world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? Oh! wilt thou come at evening hour, to shed The tears of memory o'er my narrow þed ; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love and all my wo?" So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply; But, when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name, Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear,How fondly looks admiring Hope the while At every artless tear and every smile ! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom true to sympathy! Campbell


SOME feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;

And, if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and elear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that, which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head. Scott.


Ah! happy hills, ah! pleasing shade,
Ah! fields beloved in vain,
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, (for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,)
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which inthral?
What idle progeny succeed,
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?
While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty ;
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry;
Still, as they run, they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed ,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast :
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue ;
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.



BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own,—my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand !
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,
For him no minstrel raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knits me to thy rugged strand ?


LAND of my fathers ! though no mangrove here, O'er thy blue streams, her ftexile branches rear,

Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree,-
Land of dark heaths and mountains !-thou art free.



ADIEU ! adieu ! '

my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild seamew:
that sets upon


We follow in his flight;
Farewell a while to him and thee,
My native land, -Good night.

Yon sun,

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

« Come hither, hither, my


Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billows'

Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ;
Our ship is swift and strong ;
Our swiftest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

“ Let winds be shrill, let waves run high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;

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