In Roslin's wild and wooded glen,

The voice of war the shepherd hears; And, in the groves of Hawthornden,

Are thrice ten thousand spears,

Bright as the cheek of Nature, when
May morning smiles through tears.

Three camps, divided, raise
Their snowy tops on high;
The flag unfurling now displays
Its lions to the sky.

The tongue of mirth is jocund there;
Blithe carols hail the matin light;
Though lurking death, and gloomy care,
Are watching, in despite,

Bright eyes that now are glancing fair,
Too soon to close in night!

Baffled, and backward borne,
Is England's foremost war!-
The Saxon battle-god, forlorn,
Remounts his dragon-car !—

A third time warlike cheers are raised
Beneath the noon's unclouded sun;
Upon the patriot band it blazed,
Saw thrice their laurels won,
And hung o'er Roslin's vale amazed,
As erst o'er Ajalon!

Blue Esk, with murmuring stream,
Romantic, journeys by

Between its rocky banks, which seem
To woo the summer sky,

With beechen groves, and oaken boughs,
And bloomy wild shrubs, fresh and fair;
While oft the pendent willow throws
Its locks of silver hair

Athwart the waters, which disclose

Its image pictured there.

Three triumphs in a day!

Three hosts subdued by one! Three armies scattered like the spray Beneath one summer sun !—

Who, pausing 'mid this solitude,

Of rocky streams, and leafy trees,-
Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,
Would ever dream of these?

Or think that aught might here intrude,
Save birds, and humming bees?

Roslin, thy castle grey

Survives the wrecks of time;
And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye,
With pinnacles sublime :-

But, when thy battlements shall sink,
And, like a vision, leave the scene,-
Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink,
On sculptured base shall lean
The patriot of the land, to think
Of glories that have been!

Blackwood's Magazine.

EPITAPH ON COWPER.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

HERE, where thought no more devours,

Rests the poet and the man ; Life with all its subtle powers, Ending where it first began.

Stranger, if thou lov'st a tear,

Weep thee o'er his death awhile; If thine eye would still be clear, Think upon his life, and smile.

Monthly Mirror.

THE PYTHON ESS.

BACK she flung

The gathered darkness of her raven hair,
And bared her marble brow, as she would turn
An unchecked gaze on heaven ;—back they flowed,
And, as beneath a mantle did she move

Within their shadow, while the murmuring wind
Bearing them like a banner, with low wail,

Passed through those long black locks. Her cheek was pale,
And, as the day break fell upon her face,

It grew still paler. One whom godless spells
Had summoned from the silence of the grave,
Would wear such fixed ghostliness of look—
And, in her eyes, unearthly light'ning dwelt,
As they caught from the stars, with which she held
Communion strange, a portion of their fire.
Her form was wan and wasted, as the soul
Had worn its fragile dwelling; when she raised
Her white arms, they were like the snowy cloud,
That, half dissolved, hangs on a moonlight sky.
She stood and watched the morning; the first blush
Of young Aurora was upon the east ;

But, when the chariot of the sun-god caught,
Invisible glory, from its cloudy hall,

A breath of fragrance floated on the air;

The laurels trembled, though the wind was hushed,
And sounds, faint, but most musical, swept past.
She felt the influence on her, and her cheek
Grew red with strong emotion; wilder light
Flashed from her eyes; and, with still haughtier step,
She prest the ground, and flung her arms on high.
Bright visions were before her, and the page

Of dim futurity was opened, and

Years yet to be, were pictured on her soul

In all their varied characters of fate.

She told of glorious things, of victories,

Of crowns, of wealth; and then came deeper tones
Of human miseries, battles, famine, death.

Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

L. E. L.

THE WINTER ROSE.

HAIL, and farewell, thou lovely guest! I may not woo thy stay,

The hues that paint thy glowing vest

Are fading fast away,

Like the retiring tints that die

At evening on the western sky,
And melt in misty grey.

It was but now thy radiant smile
Broke through the season's gloom,
As bending I inhaled awhile

Thy breathing of perfume,

And traced on every silken leaf
A tale of summer, sweet and brief,
And sudden as thy doom.

The morning sun thy petals hailed
New from their mossy cell;

At eve his beam, in sorrow veiled,
Bade thee a last farewell;

To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot
Where, loosened from their fairy knot,
Thy withering beauties fell.

Alas! on thy forsaken stem

My heart shall long recline, And mourn the transitory gem,

And make the story mine!

So on my joyless winter hour

Has oped some fair and fragrant flower With smile as soft as thine.

Like thee the vision came, and went,

Like thee it bloomed and fell,

In momentary pity sent

Of fairer climes to tell;

So frail its form, so short its stay,

That nought the lingering heart could say,
But, hail, and fare thee well!

Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

THE DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN 1800.

SWEET Iser, were thy sunny realm
And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm
To prop the tender vine;

My golden flaggons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill;
And, under every myrtle bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,
To many an idle hour.

Like rivers crimsoned with the beam
Of yonder planet bright,

Our balmy cups should ever stream
Profusion of delight!

No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart;

For wine can triumph over woe;
And Love and Bacchus (brother powers)
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers,
A paradise below.

[This little poem has been given to the Editor as an early and unpublished effusion of a celebrated and virtuous living Poet.]