How sweet, my friend, at this lone hour, to scale
These moonlight mountain cliffs, and view below
The dark lake sleeping in the silver glow

With all its shadowy isles ;-to list alone
The dying winds that sigh around the steep,
And summer rills adown the rocks that creep
With a dull, tinkling, melancholy wail ;—
How solemnly, while hush'd the fitful gale,

Falls on the ear that deep and nameless tone,
From the dim bosom of the wilderness ;-

Made of all mingling sounds,-so like the moan
Of child that murmurs through its dream of bliss :-
Thus look'd the infant world ere yet the groan
Of human guilt or grief disturbed its happiness !

3.

TO THE SAME.

THEY call'd us brother bards!—The same blue streams
Witness'd our youthful sports ;-our tears have sprung
Together, when those ancient tales were sung,
That tinged our fancy's first and sweetest dreams;
Two simple boys bewitch'd with magic themes !-
And still, as riper years and judgment came,
On mutual couch we plann'd our mutual schemes,
Our tastes, our friendships, and our faith the same:
But not the same our task!-Thy loftier lyre,

Which, with the tide of feeling, swells or falls,
Shall charm tumultuous camps and courtly halls,
And rouse the warrior's arm and patriot's ire-
While I shall chant my little madrigals
To happy circles round the cottage fire.

ON

THE DEPARTURE OF AUTUMN.

1.

THEY are gone, the bright visions for ever are past,
The forests are drear and the skies overcast ;

The enchantments of autumn are vanished, and now
The snow mists have covered the grey mountain's brow.

2.

There were hours of enchantment, when heavenly light,
Mid the tempests of life shall ne'er fade from my sight;
Whose influence by memory cherished shall bloom,
And the dark hour of midnight with transport illume.

3.

There were forms of enchantment that floated around
Mid the golden-hued groves on the leaf-covered ground—
Those forms will revive in the dark winter day,
And enliven with magical beauty my way.

4.

There was music divine, when the redbreast at morn
His wild notes renewed on his leaf-dropping thorn;
There was fragrance most soothing that filled the calm air,
From the dark wreaths of foliage that lay here and there.

5.

There was joy most enchanting, when morning awoke
Through the vapours of frost, that dissolved into smoke
When the horn of the hunter re-echoed afar,
And the purple rays rested on Loch Vennachar-

6.

But a weight on my breast, and a fire in my brain,
The high-soaring raptures of fancy restrain.
They are gone! But they flourish in memory still,
The joys of the wild-wood and heath.covered hill

BALLA D.

1.

WHEN the sky is black above, and the billows white below,
And between the foaming swells we are lab'ring to and fro;
When waves they roar beneath us, and thunders roll o'er head,
O think ye not, ye landsmen! it is a scene of dread?

But dreadful though it be, yet it cannot us appal,

For we feel Affection pours her prayers, and mercy hears them all.

2.

When the ship is on her beams, and the masts are all a wreck,
And, to 'scape the angry surge, we are lash'd upon the deck,
When night is closing fast, and no sign of succour near,

O think ye not, ye landsmen! it is a scene of fear?
But fearful though it be, yet it cannot us appal,
For we trust Affection pours her prayer,

3.

and mercy

hears them all.

But see, the morn approaching, a vessel heaves in sight,
The waves are sinking once again, the breezes they are light,
She sees our waving signal, and swiftly beareth down,
The red cross is her flag, and her country is our own;
With pleasure then, ye landsmen! our dangers we recall,
For we know Affection pour'd her prayers, and mercy

hear them all! W. M. T.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF DR JOHN LEYDEN.

WHERE sleep the brave on Java's strand,
Thy ardent spirit, Leyden! fled,
And fame with cypress shades the land
Where genius fell and valour bled.

When triumph's tale is westward borne,
On Border hills no joy shall gleam;
And thy loved Tiviot long shall mourn
The youthful Poet of her stream.

Near Jura's rocks the Mermaid's strain Shall change from sweet to solemn lay; For he is gone, the stranger swain, Who sung the Maid of Colonsay.

The hardy tar, Britannia's pride,
Shall hang his manly head in woe;
The Bard who told how Nelson died,
With harp unstrung, in earth lies low.

I see a weeping band arise,
I hear sad music on the gale;
Thy dirge is sung from Scotia's skies,

Her mountain sons their loss bewail.

The Minstrel of thy native north
Pours all his soul into the song;
It bursts from near the winding Forth,
And Highland rocks the notes prolong.

Yes, he who struck a matchless lyre
O'er Flodden's field and Katrine's wave,
With trembling hand now leads the choir
That mourn his Leyden's early grave.

BIRTHS, MARRIAGES, AND DEATHS,

WITHIN THE YEAR 1811.