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Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies
Shocked at the excess of light, returned the sound
In frightful echoes, -as if an alarm
Had spread through all the elements :-then came
A horrid silence_deep_unnatural—like

The quiet of the grave!-
Literary Gaxette.

LINES

ON LEAVING LLANDOGO, A VILLAGE ON THE BANKS

OF THE WYE.

SWEET spot ! I leave thee with an aching heart,

As down the stream my boat glides smoothly on;
With thee, as if I were a swain, I part,

And thou the maiden that I doated on.

I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again ;

That lowly church, calm promiser of rest;
Yon white cots, free from riches and from pain,

Fantastic gems upon the mountain's breast.

Fast, fast, thou’rt fading from my longing sight ;

The next bold turn, and thou art gone for aye,
A dream's bright remnant on a summer night-

The faint remembrance of a love gone by.

Farewell ! and if Fate's distant unknown page

Doom me to wreck Passion's angry sea,
I'll leave Philosophy to reasoning age,

And charm the tempest with a thought on thee.
Etonian.

K

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH-DAY

OF ROBERT BURNS.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

What bird in beauty, flight, or song,

Can with the Bard compare,
Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong,

As ever child of air !

His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS,

For whim or pleasure; change!
He was not one, but all, by turns,

With transmigration strange !

The Blackbird, oracle of Spring,

When flowed his moral lay ;-
The Swallow, wheeling on the wing,

Capriciously at play ;

The Humming bird, from bloom to bloom,

Inhaling heavenly balm ;-
The Raven in the tempest's gloom ;-

The Halcyon, in the calm ;

In Cauld Kirk Alloway,' the Owl,

At witching time of night ;-
By bonnie Doon,' the earliest fowl,

That caroled to the light.

He was the Wren amidst the grove,

When in his homely vein ;-
At Bannockburn, the Bird of Jove,

With thunder in his train ;

The Woodlark, in his mournful hours ;

The Goldfinch, in his mirth ;The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,

Enrapturing heaven and earth ;

The Swan, in majesty and grace,

Contemplative and still ;
But roused,—no Falcon in the chace

Could, like his satire, kill!

The Linnet, in simplicity ;

In tenderness, the Dove;-
But more than all beside, was He

The Nightingale, in love.

Oh! had he never stooped to shame,

Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had Devotion loved to name

That Bird of Paradise !

Peace to the dead !-In Scotia's choir

Of minstrels, great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,

The Phenix of them all!
Sheffield Mercury.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

ERE sin could blight, or sorrow fade.

Death came, with friendly care, The opening bud to heaven conveyed,

And bade it blossom there.

MARY'S MOUNT.

Wuo, standing on this rural spot,

With groves above, and fields around,
Would, pausing, e'er indulge the thought,

That armies thronged the lower ground ?
Or image neighing steed, or fear
That trump or drum salute his ear!
Or think this leafy screen enfolded

A being of as tragic fate,

As lovely, and unfortunate, As Nature ever moulded !

Traced like a map, the landscape lies

In cultured beauty stretching wide ; There, Pentland's green

acclivities; There, Ocean, with its azure tide; There, Arthur's seat ; and gleaming through Thy southern wing, Dunedin blue ! While, in the orient, Lammer's daughters,

A distant giant range are seen,

North Berwick Law, with cone of green, And Bass amid the waters.

Wrapt in the mantle of her woe,

Here agonized Mary stood,
And saw contending hosts below,

Opposing, meet in deadly feud;
With hilt to hilt, and hand to hand,
The children of one mother land
For battle come. The banners flaunted

Amid Carberry's beechen grove;

And kinsmen, braving kinsmen, strove Undaunting and undaunted.

Silent the queen in sorrow stood,

When Bothwell, starting forward, said, “The cause is mine-a nation's blood,

Go, tell yon chiefs, should not be shed !

Go, bid the bravest heart advance
In single fight, to measure lance
With me, who wait prepared to meet him !'

Fly !-Bothwell, fly!—It shall not be.'

She wept-she sobbed-on bended knee Fair Mary did entreat him.

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'I go,' he sighed—the war is mine,

A Nero could not injure thee ;My lot on earth is sealed, but thine

Shall long, and bright, and happy be ! This last farewell—this struggle o'er, We ne'er shall see each other more :Now loose thy hold, poor broken-hearted !'

She faints—she falls,–Upon his roan

The bridle reins in haste are thrownThe pilgrim hath departed.

Know ye the tenor of his fate?

A fugitive among his own;
Disguisedmdeserted—desolate

A weed on Niagara thrown;
A Cain among the sons of men;
A pirate on the ocean; then,
A Scandinavian captive fettered

To die amid the dungeon gloom,

If earthly chance, or heavenly doom Is dark :—but so it mattered.

Daughter of Scotland ! Beautiful,

Beyond what falls to human lot,
Thy breathing features rendered dull,

The visions of a poet's thought!
Thy voice was music on the deep,
When winds are hushed, and waves asleep;
In mould and mind by far excelling,

Or Cleopatra on the wave

Of Cydnus vanquishing the brave, Or Troy's resplendent Helen!

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