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Adieu, ye bards! whose wit for ages thrives,
Ye Garricks-Barrys-Abingdons, and Clives!
Our Poet, for himself, the charge will own,
And mourns, with Comedy, her vacant throne.
Yet while unfriended, she must needs give place
To each adventurous alien from her race,
Let critics grant some share of their applause,
To a weak struggler in the good old cause.
The happier skill of happier days to learn,
Let me too hope-degenerate in my turn,
Yet proud, while you with generous eye implore me,
To do but half my mother did before me.

THE LEGEND OF DUNBAR.

LORD PATRICK from his home lies far,
And the death-bird screams over old Dunbar :
His hound has forgotten his native land;
His war-horse stoops to another hand;
No traveller treads that lonely way,

Save the palmer from Cheviot's mountains grey.
And that pale musing wand'rer sighs,
With blighted cheek, and hollow eyes.
As on his pilgrim-staff reposed
He leans beside the church-yard bound,
Gazing on many a mossy mound,

O'er gentle hearts for ever closed,
He loves upon that turf to rest,
Yet there is in his lonely breast
No relic of love-hallow'd days,

Such as in sweet remembrance stays,
Like summer flow'rs that softly breathe,
Though time has shrunk the rosy wreath.
The fountain of his joy is dried,
And the rich channel it supplied
Is now a chasm dark and deep,

Where weeds and baleful serpents creep.
A mourner sits in the roofless aisle
Of old Dunbar's forsaken pile;

Where, stretch'd upon his shield of pride,
A warrior's form lies sanctified;
With upraised palms together prest,
Signing his hope of holy rest.

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"Love has a tongue which dare not praise, But language in its silence dwells Love has an eye that cannot gaze,

Yet with a glance its secret tells.

"The lip, the cheek, have magic speech, A blush may plead-a smile persuade; But hearts are dumb, and none can teach The rebel tongue to lend them aid.

"And charity, from mortal sight,

Retires its busy glance to shun; She walks in shadow, but has light From him whose eye is in the sun.

"She loves the valley, and her rest

Is the world-wearied heart's recess; And once, when man was Eden's quest, He knew, and call'd her happiness."

Smiling, the lady stoop'd to fill
Her maple cup at Deva's rill.
"Palmer! (she cried,) the widow's cruise
Yields not the spicy purple juice;

Yet take this draught-a boon so small
She weeps to give-but gives thee all."

Softly she smiled, and meekly spoke,-
Why shook the Palmer as he quaff'd,
From hands so fair the gentle draught;
With lifted eye and loosen'd cloak,
Back from his shining armour thrown?
The red light of the fading west,
Seem'd on his shrivell'd brow to rest,
Like glory on a broken throne.

"Fair lady, thou hast taught me well
How happiness on earth may dwell.-

"It is when bending by the grave Of him who stung my trusting heart, And rent away its dearest part,

I learn to bless, forgive, and save!

"Thou know'st me now; but never yet Did hate the cup of peace repay :

A dagger's hilt would ill befit

The hand which thus on thine I lay.

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SONNET TO

THERE, on the streamlet's bank-her grassy bed-
In careless posture, loosely robed, she lies;
One lily arm thrown circling o'er her eyes,
And one, the downy pillow to her head.
Her silken hair, in wavy ringlets shed,

Half veils her red cheek from the burning skies;
And on her thin-robed bosom softly dies
The murmuring breeze in odorous gardens bred.
O sweet and beautiful the dreams must be,

That visit such a frame when sleep has sealed Its mortal sense, and left the immortal free! Yet visions more divine thou canst not see,

Than the real bliss, to mortal sense reveal'd, That raps my soul while gazing thus on thee.

Königsberg, July 25, 1817.

STANZAS.

WHILE thou at eventide art roaming
Along the elm-o'ershadow'd walk,-
While past the eddying stream is foaming,
And falling down,-a cataract,-
Where I to thee was wont to talk,
Think thou upon the days gone by,
And heave a sigh!

When sails the moon above the mountains,

And cloudless skies are purely blue,

And sparkle in the light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,-
Then be thou melancholy too,
When pausing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved!

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