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Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
Where-taming thought to human pride !
The mighty Chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ;
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry, -
" Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate dnom,
Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb ;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?”



HARP of the North ! that mouldering lung hast

hung On the witch elm that shades St Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,

O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep! 'Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep ! Not thus in ancient days of Caledon,

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. At each according pause was heard aloud

Thine ardent symphony, sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd ;

For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's

matchless eye.

O wake once more ! how rude soe'er the hand

That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray ; O wake once more! though scarce my skill com.

mand Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,

The wizard note has not been touch'd in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!


Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright,
As in that well-remember'd night,
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

nce then how often hast thou press'd The torrid zone of this wild breast,

Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
With the first sin that peopled hell,
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion ?-
0, if such clime thou canst endure,
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
I had not wander'd wild and wide,
With such an angel for my guide ;
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me,
If she had lived, and lived to love me.

Not then this world's wild joys had been
To me one savage hunting scene,
My sole delight the headlong race,
And frantic hurry of the chase,
To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
Rush in, drag down and rend my prey,
Then—from the carcass turn away!
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
And sooth'd each wound which pride inflamed ;
Yes, God and man might now approve me,
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!



HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow !

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory ;
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, (a)

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber !
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever !



Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way ;

Go boldly forth ; nor yet thy master blame, Who chose no patron for his humble lay,

And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame.

(a) Or corri. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.

There was and O ! how many sorrows crowd

Into these two brief words!-there was a claim(a) By generous friendship given—had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the


All angel now—yet little less than all,

While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,

Which hid its own, to sooth all other woe; What ’vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow

Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: And, least of all, what 'vails the world should

know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither





ART thou a Patriot, Traveller ?—On this field
Did FALKLAND fall, the blameless and the brave,
Beneath a Tyrant's banners.--Dost thou boast
Of loyal ardour ? HAMPDEN perish'd here,
The rebel HAMPDEN, at whose glorious name

(a) This is understood to to the Dutchess of Buc. cleuch, who died shortly before the poem appeared.

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