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Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies
The quiet of the grave!-
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;
And thou the maiden that I doated on.
I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again ;
That lowly church, calm promiser of rest;
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,
The faint remembrance of a love gone by.
Farewell ! and if Fate's distant unknown page
Doom me to wreck Passion's angry sea,
And charm the tempest with a thought on thee.
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,
As ever child of air !
His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS,
For whim or pleasure; change!
With transmigration strange !
The Blackbird, oracle of Spring,
When flowed his moral lay ;-
Capriciously at play ;
The Humming bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm ;-
The Halcyon, in the calm ;
In Cauld Kirk Alloway,' the Owl,
At witching time of night ;-
That caroled to the light.
He was the Wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein ;-
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 ;
Could, like his satire, kill!
The Linnet, in simplicity ;
In tenderness, the Dove;-
The Nightingale, in love.
Oh! had he never stooped to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
That Bird of Paradise !
Peace to the dead !-In Scotia's choir
Of minstrels, great and small,
The Phenix of them all!
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.
Wuo, standing on this rural spot,
With groves above, and fields around,
That armies thronged the lower ground ?
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,
Opposing, meet in deadly feud;
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
Fly !-Bothwell, fly!—It shall not be.'
She wept-she sobbed-on bended knee Fair Mary did entreat him.
'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;
A weed on Niagara thrown;
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,
The visions of a poet's thought!
Or Cleopatra on the wave
Of Cydnus vanquishing the brave, Or Troy's resplendent Helen!