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And then I talk, and often think
Aërial voices answer me;

And, oh! I am not then alone-
A solitary man.

And when the blust'ring winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whisp'ring of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft
The condor's hollow scream.

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE
NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.

SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchief'd on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;
Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining,
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled;
Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning,
And I would fain compose my aching head.

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weep

ing,

When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will sooth thee when thy mother's sleepIn her low grave of shame and infamy?

[ing Sleep, baby mine; to-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest:

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou❜lt press a mother's breast.

SONNET.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

MRS. COCKBURN.. 1679-1749.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,
I've tasted her favours and felt her decay;
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled-it is fled far away.

I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay: Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming,

But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae.

I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams,

Turn drumly and dark as they rolled on their way.

[me,

Oh fickle Fortune! why this cruel sporting?
Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.

JOHN LEYDEN. 1800.

SCOTTISH MUSIC.

AGAIN, Sweet siren! breathe again
That deep, pathetic, powerful strain;
Whose melting tones of tender wo,
Fall soft as evening's summer dew,
That bathes the pinks and harebells blue,
Which in the vales of Tiviot blow.

Such was the song that sooth'd to rest,
Far in the green isle of the west,

The Celtic warrior's parted shade;
Such are the lonely sounds that sweep
O'er the blue bosom of the deep,

Where shipwreck'd mariners are laid.

Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell,
When music's tones the bosom swell,

The scenes of former life return; Ere, sunk beneath the morning star, We left our parent climes afar,

Immured in mortal forms to mourn. Or if, as ancient sages ween, Departed spirits, half unseen,

Can mingle with the mortal throng;
"Tis when from heart to heart we roll
The deep-toned music of the soul,
That warbles in our Scottish song.

I hear, I hear, with awful dread,
The plaintive music of the dead!
They leave the amber fields of day:
Soft as the cadence of the wave,
That murmurs round the mermaid's grave,
They mingle in the magic lay.

Sweet siren, breathe the powerful strain!
'Lochroyan's damsel" sails the main;

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The crystal tower enchanted see!

"Now break," she cries, "ye fairy charms!"
As round she sails with fond alarms,
"Now break, and set my true love free!"
Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone,
Where fair" Gil Morrice" sits alone,
And careless combs his yellow hair;
Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain!
The meanest of Lord Barnard's train

The hunter's mangled head must bear.
Or, change these notes of deep despair,
For love's more soothing tender air:

Sing how, beneath the greenwood-tree,
"Brown Adam's" love maintain'd her truth,
Nor would resign the exiled youth
For any knight the fair could see.

And sing "the hawk of pinion gray,"
To southern climes who wing'd his way,
VOL. II.-L

For he could speak as well as fly; Her brethren how the fair beguiled, And on her Scottish lover smiled,

As slow she raised her languid eye.

Fair was her cheek's carnation glow,
Like red blood on a wreath of snow;

Like evening's dewy star her eye;
White as the sea-mew's downy breast,
Borne on the surge's foamy crest,

Her graceful bosom heaved the sigh.

In youth's first morn, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had pass'd away,
Remember'd like a morning dream,
I heard these dulcet measures float,
In many a liquid winding note,

Along the banks of Teviot's stream.

Sweet sounds! that oft have sooth'd to rest
The sorrows of my guileless breast,
And charm'd away mine infant tears:
Fond memory shall your strains repeat,
Like distant echoes, doubly sweet,
That in the wild the traveller hears.

And thus, the exiled Scotian maid,
By fond alluring love betray'd

To visit Syria's date-crown'd shore;
In plaintive strains, that sooth'd despair,
Did "Bothwell's banks that bloom so fair,"
And scenes of early youth deplore.

Soft siren! whose enchanting strain
Floats wildly round my raptured brain,
I bid your pleasing haunts adieu!
Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead
My footsteps to the silver Tweed,

Through scenes that I no more must view.

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