The morning sun's soft trembling beams
Shoot brighter o'er the blue expanse,
And red the cottage window gleams,
As o'er its crystal panes they glance.

But

you, dear scenes! that far away Expand beyond these mountains blue, Where fancy sheds a purer day,

And robes the fields in richer hue,

A softer voice in every gale

I mid your woodlands wild should hear; And death's unbreathing shades would fail To sigh their murmurs in mine ear.

Ah! when shall I by Teviot's stream

The haunts of youth again explore? And muse in melancholy dream

On days that shall return no more?

Dun heathy slopes, and valleys green,

Which I so long have lov'd to view, As o'er my soul each lovely scene

Unfolds, I bid a fond adieu!

Yet, while we mark with pitying eye
The varied scenes of earthly woe,
Why should we grieve to see them fly;
Or fondly linger as they go ?

Yes! friendship sweet, and tender love,

The fond reluctant soul detain;

Or all the whispers of the grove,

With Spring's soft gales, would woo in vain.

For bliss so sweet, though swift its flight,
Again we hail the holy sun.
Thy yellow tresses glitter bright,

Fair maid, thy life is just begun.

To tell thee of the lonely tomb,

Is morning's radiant face to cloud;

To wrap thy soul in sable gloom,

Is veiling roses with the shroud.

ODE

TO THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair Star, to love and lovers dear!
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through a tear.

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream,
To mark that image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, The moon thy timid beams outshine As far as thine each starry light;

Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flowers,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious extasy.

Fair Star! tho' I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,

Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love!

But sweeter to be lov'd again.

GREENLAND ELEGY.

A FATHER ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

AGAIN, my son! the lamp of eve burns clear,
And every other friend around I see,
That form the fond fraternal circle here,

But empty still remains the seat for thee.

In vain are all thy mother's toils of love;

Thy sister Runa's matchless skill is vain; Who oft the eider's silken down has wove

For thee returning from the glassy plain.

In Disko's bay I stand for thee no more,
At gelid eve to see thy trim canoe

Come lightly gliding through the frost-smoke hoar,
The sea-fire flashing round the grazing prow.