The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd

Her horn; the equal land without a lord; And now the self-elected chief finds time
The wish-which ages have not yet subdued To stun the first sensation of his crime,
In man-to have no master save his mood :

And raise it in his followers" Ho! the bowl; The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. The glowing sun and produce all its gold ;

“ Brandy for heroes!” Burke could once exclaimThe freedom which can call each grot a home;

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame;
The general garden, where all steps may roam, And such the new-born heroes found it here,
Where Nature owns a nation as her child,

And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheet Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild;

“ Huzza for Otaheite!” was the cry, Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know; How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny. Their unexploring navy, the canoe;

The gentle island, and the genial soil,
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase; The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil,
Their strangest sight, an European face:

The courteous manners but from nature caught, Such was the country which these strangers yearn's The wealth unhoarded and the love unbought; To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd.

Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate, Before the mast by every wind of heaven? Awake! awake! -Alas! it is too late!

And now, even now prepared with other's woes Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer

To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast; At the same end by pathways not the same, The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest; Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand; Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath

Than aught we know beyond our little day. Its desperate escape from duty's path,

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice: Whatever creed he taught or land he trod,
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
Unless he drain the wine of passion-rage.


The launch is crowded with the faithful few
In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew:
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath ; But some remain'd reluctant on the deck
They come not; they are few, and, over-awed, Of that proud vessel-now a moral wreck-
Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud, And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes :
In vain thou dost demand the cause: a curse While others scoff’d his augur'd miseries,
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, And the slight bark so laden and so frail.
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, The tender nautilus, who steers his prow,
The levell’d muskets circle round thy breast The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe,
In hands as steeled to do the deadly rest.

The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, Thou darest them to the worst, exclaiming- Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. "Fire ! ”

He, when the lightning-wing’d tornadoes sweep But they who pitied not could yet admire; The surge, is safe-his port is in the deepSome lurking remnant of their former awe And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, Restrain'd them longer than their broken law; Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. They would not dip their souls at once in blood, But left thee to the mercies of the flood.


When all was now prepared, the vessel clear

Which hail'd her master in the mutineer-
“Hoist out the boat!” was now the leader's cry; A seaman, less obdurate than his mates,
And who dare answer “No!” to Mutiny, Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ;
In the first dawning of the drunken hour, Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye,
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power?

And told, in signs, repentant sympathy; The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, With its slight plank between thee and thy fate; Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. Her on.y cargo such a scant supply

But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, As promises the death their hands deny;

Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. And just enough of water and of bread

Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine, And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, But treasures all to hermits of the brine,

Exclaim'd, “Depart at once! delay is death!” Were added after, to the earnest prayer

Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all: Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; In that last moment could a word recall And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, The feeling compass-Navigation's soul.

"And what he hid from many show'd to one:

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When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs,
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? But left her vices also to their heirs.
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, Away with this ! behold them as they were,
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? Do good with Nature, or with Nature err.
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, “Huzza! for Otaheite!” was the cry,
“ 'Tis that! 'tis that! I am in hell! in hell ! ” As stately swept the gallant vessel by.
No more he said; but urging to the bark

The breeze springs up; the lately flapping sai! His chief, commits him to his fragile ark,

Extends its arch before the growing gale; These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease,

Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam; IX

But those she wafted still look back to home The arctic sun rose broad above the wave;

These spurn their country with their rebel bark, The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave;

And fly her as the raven fled the ark; As on the Æolian harp, his fitful wings

And yet they seek to nestle with the dove,
Now swellid, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings.

And tame their fiery spirits down to love.
With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff,
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main :
That boat and ship shall never meet again!
But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief,
Their constant peril and their scant relief;

Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ;

Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain;
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,*
Known to his mother in the skeleton;

When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! The ills that lessen'd still their little store,

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more;

And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said : The varying frowns and favors of the deep,

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along

We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, The tide that yields reluctant to the strong;

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head The incessant fever of that arid thirst

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst

The sweet moon glancing through the toga tree, Above their naked bones, and feels delight

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough In the cold drenching of the stormy night,

Shall sadly please us as we lean below; And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs ;

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, The sayage foe escaped, to seek again

Which spurn in columns back the bafiled spray. More hospitable shelter from the main;

How beautiful are these ! how happy they, The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last,

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, To tell as true a tale of dangers past,

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives As ever the dark annals of the deep

Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep.

And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon.


Yes—from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers,
We leave them to their fate, but not unknown Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers,
Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf,
Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, Then lay our limbs along the tender turf,
And injured navies urge their broken laws. And, wet and shining from the sportive toil,
Pursue we on his track the mutineer,

Anoint our bodies with the fragant oil, Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, Wide o'er the wave-away! away! away!

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; But lo! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, Once more the happy shores without a law The sound of mats are heard along our track; Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw; Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen Nature, and Nature's goddess-woman-woos In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse; And we too will be there ; we too recall Where all partake the earth without dispute, The memory bright with many a festival, And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit : *

Erc Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes Where none contest the fields, the woods, the For the first time were wafted in canoes. streams:

Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds; The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, Alas! for them our fields are rank with weeds : Inhabits or inhabited the shore, Till Europe taught them better than before ;

• The first three scetions as taken from an setun! son is the longo Islanders, of which a prom translation is given in "Mariners Art of the

Tongo lelands." looboni is not howevor one of uk'); !u was one of * The now celebrated bread-init, to transplant whicha Captain Bligh's those where Christian and the mutineers took r fugt. I have altered and pedidon was undertakert

added, but have notained as rurach as possible of the original

Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy. 1

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown,

Exist: and what can our accomplish'd art Of wandering with the moon and love alone. Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart? But be it so :--they taught us how to wield The club and rain our arrows o'er the field: Now let them reap the harvest of their art!

But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. And sweetly now those untaught melodies
Strike up the dance! the cava bowl fill high ! Broke the luxurious silence of the skies,
Drain every drop!-to-morrow we may die. The sweet siesta of a summer day,
In summer garments be our limbs array'd; The tropic afternoon of Toobonai,
Around our waists the tappa's white display'd; When every flower was bloom, and air was balm,
Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's, And the first breath began to stir the palm,
And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings; The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow All gently to refresh the thirsty cave,
Of the dusk bosons that beat high below.

Who taught her passion's desolating joy,

Too powerful over every heart, but most
But now the dance is o'er-yet stay awhile ;

O'er those who know not how it may be lost; Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, To-morrow for the Mooa we depart,

Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, But to-night-to-night is for the heart.

With such devotion to their ecstacy, Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo,

That life knows no such rapture as to die: Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo !

And die they do; for earthly life has nought How lovely are your forms ! how every sense

Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense,

And all our dreams of better life above
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep,

But close in one eternal gush of love.
Which fiing their fragrance far athwart the deep!-
We too will see Licoo; but-oh! my heart!

What do I say?-to-morrow we depart!

There sat the gentle savage of the wild,

In growth a woman, though in years a child,

As childhood dates within our colder clime,
Thus rose a song—the harmony of times
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes.

Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime;

The infant of an infant world, as pure
True, they had vices such are nature's growth-
But only the barbarian's—we have both:

From nature-lovely, warm, and premature;

Dusky like night, but night with all her stars; The sordor of civilization, mix'd

Or cavern sparkling with its native spars;
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd.
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign,

With eyes that were a language and a spell,
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain?

A form like Aphrodite's in her shell,

With all her loves around her on the deep,
Who such would see may from his lattice view
The Old World more degraded than the New,

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep;

Yet full of life-for through her tropic cheek Now nero no more, save where Columbia rears

The blush would make its way, and all but speak; Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres,

The sun-born blood suffused her neck and threw
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave,
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave.

O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue,
Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave.

Such was this daughter of the southern seas,
Such was this ditty of tradition's days,

Herself a billow in her energies, Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys To bear the bark of others' happiness, In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less: Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, No joy like what it gave; her hopes ne'er drew But yields young history all to harmony;

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire.

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave Or what she knew was soon-too soon-forgot: Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear,

hill, Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear: Restore their surface, in itself so still, Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme

Until the earthquake tear the naiad's care, For sage's labors or the student's dream; Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil - And crush the living waters to a mass, The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! Such was this rude rhyme-rhyme is of the rude and must their fate be hers ? The eternal change But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, But grasps humanity with quicker range; Who came and cor.quer'd; such, wherever rise And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, Lards where no fues destroy or civilize,

| To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all.

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Of a long race, the valiant and the free,
And who is he? the blue-eyed northern child The naked knights of savage chivalry,
of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild; Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore;
The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides,

And thine-I've seen-Achilles! do no more. Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas;

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers cume, Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind,

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, The tempest-born in body and in mind,

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm ; ! Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home, But when the winds awaken’d, shot forth wings The giant comrade of his pensive moods,

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, The sharer of his craggy solitudes,

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, The only Mentor of his youth, where'er

Making the very billows look less free; His bark was borne; the sport of wave and air ;

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow Nurs'd by the legends of his land's romance; Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear,

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge, Acquainted with all feelings save despair.

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant bulk, Plac'd in the Arab's clime, he would have been Which heaved from wave to wave its trembling hulk; As bold a rover as the sands have seen,

The anchor dropp’d; it lay along the deep, And braved their thirst with as enduring lip

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship;

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique;

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. On Hellas' mountains a rebellious Greek;

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane;
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign.

The white man landed !--need the rest be told ? For the same soul that rends its path to sway,

The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old; If rear'd to such, can find no further prey

Each was to each a marvel, and the tie Beyond itself, and must retrace its way, t

Of wonder warm’d to better sympathy. Plunging for pleasure into pain: the same

Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame,

And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. A humbler state and discipline of heart

Their union grew: the children of the storm Had form’d his glorious namesake's counterpart;# Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form; But grant his vices, grant them all his own,

While these in turn admired the paler glow, How small their theatre without a throne !

Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow,

The chase, the race, the liberty to roam,

The soil where every cottage show'd a home;
Thou smilest;—these comparisons seem high The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe,
To those who scan all things with dazzled eye; Which stemm'd the studded archipelago,
Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ;
Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, The healthy slumber, earn’d by sportive toils;
With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ;-

The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, Thou smilest?-Smile; 'tis better thus than sigh; Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, Yet such he might have been; he was a man, While eagles scarce build higher than the crest A soaring spirit, ever in the van,

Which shadows o'er the Wincyard in her breast; A patriot hero or despotic chief,

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, To form a nation's glory or its grief,

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; Born under auspices which make us more

The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, Or less than we delight to ponder o'er.

yields But these are visions; say, what was he here? The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, A blooming boy, a truant mutineer,

And bakes its unadulterated loaves The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray,

Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, The husband of the bride of Toobonai.

And flings off famine from its fertile breast,

A priceless market for the gathering guest;

These, with the luxuries of seas and woods,
By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters,— The airy joys of social solitudes,
Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters, Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies
Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, Of those who were more happy, if less wise,
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) Did more than Europe's discipline had done,

And civilized civilization's son! The ship of the desert" is the Orientul figure for the camel or dromedary : and they deserve the metaphor well, the former for buis endurance,

XII. 1 “Lacul, when frugdity could charn,

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, Hart rested tarnips in the Sabine farm." Pope.

1 1 The consul Nero, who made the unequal match which deceived Hanni- Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair; bal, and defrater! Andrutad; thereby accomplishing an achievement almost Both children of the isles, though distant far; enrivaled in military anuals. The first intelligence of his return, to Hanni; Born both beneath a sea-presiding star; kal, was the sight of Aristal's lead thrown into his camp. When Hannibal ter this, he concluirned with a sigh, that “ Rome would now be the mistress Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, of the world.” And yet to this victory of N-my's it might be owing that his Loved to the last, whatever intervenes lispersal namesake rigted at all. Buletha insemy of the one has eclipsed the Between us and our childhood's sympathy, giury of the other. When the name of "Nero" in heard, who thinks of the to xull--but such are human tuig.

Which still reverts to what first caught the eye

the latter for his swinesa.


He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue With no distracting world to call her
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, From love; with no society to scoff
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, At the new transient flame; no babbling crowd
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. Of coxcombry in admiration loud,
Long have I roam'd through lands which are not Or with adulterous whisper to alloy

Her duty, and her glory, and her joy.
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, With faith and feelings naked as her form,
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep

She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep :

Changing its hues with bright variety,
But 'twas not all long ages lore, nor all

But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky,
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall. Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move,
The infant rapture still survived the boy, The cloud-compelling harbinger of love.
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,*
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount,

And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore,
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade!

They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er;
Forgive me, Phæbus ! that my fancy stray'd; Nor long the hours, they never pass'd o'er time,
The north and nature taught me to adore

Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime,
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. Which deals the daily pittance of our span,

And points and mocks with iron laugh at man,

What deem'd they of the future or the past ?

The present, like a tyrant, held them fast: The love which maketh all things fond and fair,

Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide The youth which makes one rainbow of the air,

Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide; The dangers past, that make even man enjoy

Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r; The pause in which he ceases to destroy,

They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour; The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel

The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel,

Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ;* United the half savage and the whole,

The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul.

As in the north he mellows o'er the deep, No more the thundering memory of the fight

But fiery, and fierce, as if he left Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight;

The world for ever, earth of light bereft, No more the irksome restlessness of rest

Plunged with red forehead down along the wave Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest,

As dives a hero headlong to his grave. Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye

Then rose they, looking first along the skies, Darts for a victim over all the sky;

And then for light into each other's eyes, His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state,

Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun,
At once Elysian and effeminate,

And asking if indeed the day were done.
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn :-
These wither when for aught save blood they burn;

Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, And let not this seem strange: the devotee
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade? Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy;
Had Cæsar known but Cleopatra's kiss,

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven,
Rome had been free, the world had not been his.

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven.
And what have Cæsar's deeds and Cæsar's fame Is love less potent? No-his path is trod,
Done for the earth? We feel them in our shame: Alike uplifted gloriously to God;
The gory sanction of his glory stains

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below,
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. The other better self, whose joy or wo
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame
Roused millions do what single Brutus did- Which, kindled by another, grows the same,
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song Wrapp'd in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile,
From the tall bough where they have perch'd so Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile.

How often we forget all time, when lone,
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, Admiring Nature's universal throne,
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls,

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense
When but a word of freedom would dispel Reply of hers to our intelligence !
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves

Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves

Without a feeling in their silent tears ?
Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life,

No, no ;--they woo and clasp us to their spheres,

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife,

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore, • When very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of the

Strip off this fond and false identity ! scarlat lever at Aberdeen, I was removed by meclical advice into the High- Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? latis. ller: I passed occasionally sore summaera, and from this period 1 And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, dat, my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the effect, a few In the young moments ere the heart is taught ye:urs afirwards in England, of the only thing I had long secn, even in nilaiature, of a mountuin, in the Malrom Hilla. After I returned to Cheltenhao, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation • The now well-known story of the lover of the nightingale and roe need wuch I caure et donerile. This was boyish enough; but I was then only thir not be more than alluded to, being sufficientiy familiar to the western as to teen saus of age, and it was in the toolidaya.

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