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Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor,
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore;
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee.
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest, piled lofty and lone—
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast!
Lo! the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest,
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill!
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still—
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight,
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,
One moment—thou bright apparition!— delay!
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.
Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth,
The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth:
In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss;
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion,
Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean!
Then proudly he turned, ere he sank to the dell,
And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell;
While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone,
Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone.
From his eyrie the eagle hath soared with a scream,
And I wake on the edge of the cliff from my dream.
—Where now is the light of thy far-beaming brow?
Fleet son of the wilderness! where art thou now?
—Again o'er yon crag thou returnest to my sight,
Like the horns of the moon from a cloud of the night!
Serene on thy travel—as soul in a dream—
Thou needest no bridge o'er the rush of the stream;
With thy presence the pine-grove is filled as with light;
And the caves, as thou passest, one moment are bright;
Through the arch of the rainbow that lies on the rock.
'Mid the mist stealing up from the cataract's shock,
Thou fling'st thy bold beauty, exulting and free,
O'er a pit of grim blackness, that roars like the sea.
His voyage is o'er!—As if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race—
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place—
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven—
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven!
THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR.
A Counsel in the Common Pleas,
Who was esteemed a mighty wit,
Upon the strength of a chance hit,
Amid a thousand flippancies,
And his occasional bad jokes,
In bullying, bantering, brow-beating,
Ridiculing and maltreating
Women, or other timid folks;
In a late cause resolved to hoax
A clownish Yorkshire farmer—one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appeared expressly meant by Fate For being quizzed and played upon.
So having tipped the wink to those
In the back rows,
Who kept their laughter bottled down,
Until our wag should draw the cork,
He smiled jocosely on the clown,
And went to work.
"Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York?" "Why, not, sir, as they do with you, But on four legs instead of two!"—
"Officer!" cried the legal elf,
Piqued at the laugh against himself,
"Do, pray, keep silence down below there.— Now look at me, clown, and attend: Have I not seen you somewhere, friend V—
"Yees—very like—I often go there!"
"Our rustic's waggish—quite laconic,"
The counsel cried with grin sardonic;
"I wish Td known this prodigy,
This genius of the clods, when I
On circuit was at York residing.—
Now, Fanner, do for once speak true-
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever
In the West Riding?"
"Why, no, sir, no; we've got our share,
But not so many as when you were there!"
ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA's LEO AT WATERLOO.
Here rests—and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,
To learn that mouldering in the grave
Is laid—a British calf.
And here five little ones repose,
Twin-born with other five,
Unheeded by their brother toes.
Who now are all alive.
A leg and foot, to speak more plain,
Rest here, of one commanding,
Who, though his wits he might retain,
Lost half his understanding;
And when the guns, with thunder fraught,
Poured bullets thick as hail,
Could only in this way be taught
To give the foe leg-bail;
And now in England, just as gay
As in the battle brave,
Goes to the rout, review, or play,
With one foot in the grave.
Fortune in vain here showed her spite;
For he will still be found,
Should England's sons engage in fight,
Resolved to stand his ground.
For Fortune's pardon I must beg—
She meant not to disarm;
And when she lopped the hero's leg,
She did not seek his h-arm,
And but indulged a harmless whim:
Since he could walk with one, She saw two legs were lost on him,
Who never meant to run.
THE DYING SAILOE.
Yes! there are real mourners.—I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene.
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed.
Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep.
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid;
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth:
In every place she wandered where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave—that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sailed, "This once, and then the day:"
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
Happy he sailed, and great the care she took
That he should softly sleep and smartly look:
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain:
Hope was awakened as for home he sailed,
But quickly sank, and never more prevailed.
He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message:—" Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake.
Yes, I must die !—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone;
Oh, give me that, and let me not despair—
One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish—had more. I will not paint
The lovers' meeting', she beheld him faint;
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew:
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes, I must die !"—and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.