For at dawning to assail ye, XXXIII. The hall was clear'd-the stranger's bed Then, from my couch may heavenly might Again his soul he interchanged With friends whose hearts were long estranged. They come, in dim procession led, The cold, the faithless, and the dead; As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 1 [MS. "And dream'd their mountain chase again."] And doubt distracts him at the view, At length, with Ellen in a grove The phantom's sex was changed and gone, Slowly enlarged to giant size, With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, 1["Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom, Angels of fancy and of love, be near, And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom. Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome. And let them virtue with a look impart; But chief, awhile, O! lend us from the tomb Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart. "Or are you sportive?-bid the morn of youth Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days Of innocence, simplicity, and truth; To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. What transport, to retrace our boyish plays, Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks!"— Castle of Indolence, Canto J.] The grisly visage, stern and hoar, The hearth's decaying brands were red, He rose, and sought the moonshine pure. XXXV. The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom, 2 1 ["Such a strange and romantic dream as may be naturally expected to flow from the extraordinary events of the past day. It might, perhaps, be quoted as one of Mr. Scott's most successful efforts in descriptive poetry. Some few lines of it are indeed unrivalled from delicacy and melancholy tenderness."-Critical Review.] 2 [MS.-"Play'd on {{ the bosom of the lake, Loch Katrine's still expanse; The aspen slept on Benvenue; Wild were the heart whose passions' power The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, He felt its calm, that warrior guest, While thus he communed with his breast: 66 5 Why is it, at each turn I trace I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." Α prayer with every bead of gold, Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturb'd repose; Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. |