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The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow !
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
Wails manhood in glory ;
Waft the leaves that are searest,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, (a)
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
LINES APPENDED TO THE LORD OF THE
ISLES. 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,
W’hich 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
INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN AT NEW
BURY. 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 refer to the Dutchess of Buccleuch, who died shortly before the poem appeared.
The heart of every honest Englishman
rupt, Friends to their common country both, they
fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.
ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN. Poussin ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed Fancy makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of herded human-kind Flies far away with spirit-speed, and tastes The untainted air, that with the lively hue Of health and happiness illumes the cheek Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul All eager follows on thy faery flights, Fancy! best friend ; whose blessed witcheries With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller O'er the long wearying desert of the world. Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, Or Alquif, or Zaizafiel's sister sage, Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced Lisuart the Grecian, pride of chivalry. Friend of my lonely hours ! thou leadest me To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,
Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons ;
path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff go drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height. Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the border steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers
Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun Should bound mine eyes,-ay, and my wishes
too, For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices, would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God: nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE, Ye leave her to reality awaked, Like thee poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.
INSCRIPTION FOR A TABLET AT PENS
ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,