The dire mistake too soon is brought to light,
And all is burie in redoubled night.

Yet some can rise superior to the pain,
And in their breasts the charmer hope retain:
While others, dead to feeling, can survey
Unmov'd, their fairest prospects fade away:
But yet a few there be,-too soon o'ercast!
Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast,
And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom,
To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb.

So, in these shades, the early primrose blows,
Too soon deceiv'd by suns, and melting snows:
So falls untimely on the desert waste,

Its blossoms withering in the northern blast.

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display,
Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way;
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat,

The timid hare from its accustom'd seat.

And oh! how sweet this walk o'er-hung with wood,
That winds the margin of the solemn flood!
What rural objects steal upon the sight!
What rising views prolong the calm delight!
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,
The woody island, and the naked mead,
The lowly but half hid in groves of reed,
The rural wicket, and the rural style,
And frequent interspers'd, the woodman's pile.

Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes,
Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise.
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend,
And mournful larches o'er the wave impend.
Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise,
What glimm'ring scenes salute my ravish'd eyes;
Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed,
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head,
And swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind,
Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind.
Still, every rising sound of calm delight
Stamps but the fearful silence of the night;
Save, when is heard, between each dreary rest,
Discordant, from her solitary nest,

The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon,
Now riding, cloud-wrapt, near her highest noon:
Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides,
And plunges sullen in the sounding tides.

How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth,
Have I lone linger'd, while the milk-maid sung
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung!
That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear,
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear.
And (lull'd to rest stern reason's harsh control)
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul.

These hallow'd shades,-these trees that woo the wind,
Recall its faintest features to my mind.

A hundred passing years, with march sublime,
Have swept beneath the silent wing of time,
Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade,
Reclusely dwelt the far-fani'd Clifton Maid,

The beauteous MARGARET; for her each swain
Confest in private his peculiar pain,

In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair,

Nor dar'd to hope to win the peerless fair.
No more, the shepherd on the blooming mead
Attun'd to gaiety his artless reed,

No more entwin'd the pansied wreath, to deck
His favourite wether's unpolluted neck,
But listless, by yon babbling stream reclin'd,
He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind,
Bemoan'd his hapless love, or boldly bent,
Far from these smiling fields, a rover went,
O'er distant lands, in search of ease to roam,
A self-will'd exile from his native home.

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain,
Her BATEMAN lov'd, nor lov'd the youth in vain.
Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs,
The echoing vault responded to their vows,
As here deep hidden from the glare of day,
Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name;
"Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her flame.
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie,
When evening slumber'd on the western sky.

That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare,
Each bears memento's of the fated pair.

One eve, when Autumn loaded ev'ry breeze
With the fall'n honours of the mourning trees,
The maiden waited at the accustomed bower,
And waited long beyond the appointed hour,
Yet Bateman came not ;-o'er the woodland drear,
Howling portentous, did the winds career;
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods,
The fitful rains rush'd down in sudden floods.
The night was dark; as now-and-then, the gale
Paus'd for a moment,- Margaret listen'd, pale;
But thro' the covert to her anxious ear,
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near.

Strange fears now filled her breast,—she knew not why,
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.
She hears a noise,-'tis he-he comes at last.
-Alas! 'twas but the gale which hurried past,
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound,
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;
"Tis Bateman's self,-He springs into her arms,
"Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms.
"Yet why this silence?—I have waited long,
"And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among,
"And now thou'rt here my fears are fled-yet speak,

Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek?

"Say, what is wrong?"-Now, through a parting cloud, The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud,

And Bateman's face was seen;-'twas deadly white,
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight.

"Oh, speak my love!" again the maid conjur'd,

Why is thy heart in sullen woe immur'd ?”

He rais'd his head, and thrice essay'd to tell,
Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell;
When thus at last reluctantly he broke

His boding silence, and the maid bespoke.
"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance,
"I, on these fields must cast my parting glance ;
"For three long years, by cruel fate's command,
"I go to languish in a foreign land.

"Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view,

Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? "Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, "Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, "And on the silken couch of wealth reclin'd, "Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind??

Oh! why, replies the maid, my faith thus prove,
Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love!
Hear me, just God! if, from my traitorous heart,
My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part,
If, when he hail again his native shore,
He find his Margaret true to him no more,
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread,
Conjoin'd, then drag me from iny perjur'd bed,
And burl me headlong down these awful steeps,
To find deserved death in yonder deeps!

*

* This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps."