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Ah, lovely youth! thy tender lay

Yes, she is there ; from idle state May not thy gentle life prolong :

Oft has she stole her hour to weep; See'st thou yon nightingale a prey ?

Think how she by thy cradle sate,' The fierce hawk hovering o'er bis song?

And how she é fondly saw thee sleep'.' His little heart is large with love:

Now tries his trembling hand to frame He sweetly hails his evening star,

Full many a tender line of love; And fate's more pointed arrows move,

And still he blots the parent's name, Insidious, from his eye afar.

For that, he fears, might fatal prore. T. he shepherdess, whose kindly care

O'er a fair fountain's smiling side Had watch'd o'er Owen's infant breath,

Reclin'd a dim tower, clad with moss, Must now their silent mansions share,

Where every bird was wont to bide, Whom time leads calmly down to death. That languish'd for its partner's loss. O tell me, parent if thou art,

This scene be chose, this scene assign'd What is this lovely picture dear ?

A parent's first embrace to wait, Why wounds its mournful eye my heart

And many a soft fear fill'd his mind, Why flows from mine th' unbidden tear >> Anxious for his fond letter's fate. Ah ! youth ! to leave thee loth am I,

The hand that bore those lines of love, Tho'l be not thy parent dear;

The well-informing bracelet boreAnd would'st thou wish, or ere I die,

Ah ! may they not unprosperous prove! The story of thy birth to hear ?

Ah! safely pass yon dangerous door! But it will make thee much bewail,

“She comes not ;-can she then delay!” And it will make thy fair eye swe!! :'

Cried the fair youth, and dropt a tearShe said, and told the woesome tale,

" Whatever filial love could say, As sooth as sheperdess might tell.

To her I said, and call'd her dear." The heart, that sorrow doom'd to share,

“ She comes-Oh! nomencircled round Has worn the frequent seal of woe,

'Tis some rude chief with many a spear, Its sad impressions learns to bear,

My hapless tale that earl has found And finds full oft its ruin slow.

Ah me ! my heart !--for her Ifear." But when that seal is first imprest,

His tender tale that earl had read, When the young heart its pain shall try,

Or ere it reach'd his lady's eye, From the soft, yielding, trembling breast,

His dark brow wears a cloud of red, Oft seems the startled soul to fly:

In rage he deems a rival nigh. Yet fed not Owen's-wild amaze

'Tis o'er--those locks that way'd in gold, In paleness cloth'd, and lifted hands,

That wav'd adown those cheeks so fair, And horrour's dread, unmeaning gaze,

Wreath'd in the gloomy tyrant's bold, Mark the poor statue, as it stands.

Hang from the severid head in air ! The simple guardian of his life

That streaming head he joys to bear Look'd wistful for the tear to glide;

In horrid guise to Lothian's halls; But when she saw his tearless strife,

Bids bis grim ruffians place it there, Silent, she lent him one,- and died.

Erect upon the frowning walls. “No, I am not a shepherd's boy,”

The fatal tokens forth be drewAwaking from his dream, he said:

Know'st thou these-Ellen of the vale ?" " Ah, where is now the promis'd joy

The pictur'd bracelet soon she knew, Of this ?--for ever, ever fled !

And soon her lovely cheek grew pale. “O picture dear!-for her lov'd sake

The trembling victim straight he led, How fondly could my heart bewail !

Ere yet her soul's first fear was v'er: My friendly shepberdess, O wake,

He pointed to the ghastly head And tell me more of this sad tale:

She saw—and sunk to rise no more. " O tell me more of this sad laleNo; thou enjoy thy gentle sleep!

* See the ancient Scottish ballad, called Gill And I will go to Lotbian's vale,

And more than all her waters weep."
Owen to Lothian's vale is fled

Earl Barnard's lofty, towers appear-
“O! art thou there," the full heart said,

“O art thou there, my parent dear ?"

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“ My duteous praise each hour I pay,

For few the hours that I must live, And give to him my little day,

Whose grace another day may give. “ When low this golden form shall fall

And spread with dust its parent plain; Tbat dust shall hear bis genial call,

And rise, to glory rise again. “To thee, my gracious power, to thee

My love, my heart, my life are due ! Thy goodness gave that life to be;

Thy goodness shall that life renew. " Ah me! ode moment from thy sight

That thus my truant-eye should stray ! The god of glory sets in night!

His faithless flower has lost a day.” Sore griev'd the flower, and droop'd her head ;

And sudden tears her breast bedew'd : Consenting tears the sisters shed,

And, wrapt in holy wonder, view'd. With joy, with pious pride elate,

“ Behold,” the aged abbess cries, “ An emblem of that happier fate

Which Heaven to all but us denies.

THE SUN-FLOWER AND THE IVY. As duteous to the place of prayer,

Witbin the convent's lonely walls, The holy sisters still repair,

What time the rosy morning calls: So fair, each morn, so full of grace,

Within their little garden rear'd, The flower of Phoebus turn'd her face

To meet the power she lov'd and fear'd. And where, along the rising sky,

Her god in brighter glory burn'd, Still there ber fond observant eye,

And there her golden breast she turn'd. When calling from their weary height

On western waves his beams to rest, Still there she sought the parting sight,

And there she turn'd her golden breast.
But soon as night's invidious shade

Afar his lovely looks bad borne,
With folded leaves and drooping head,

Full sore she griev'd, as one forlorn.
Such duty in a flower display'd

The holy sisters smil'd to see,
Forgave the pagan rites it paid,

And lov'd its fond idolatry,
But painful still, though meant for kind,

The praise that falls on Envy's ear,
O'er the dim window's arch entwin'd,

Tbe canker'd lvy chanc'd to hear. And “See," she cried, “ that specious flower,

Whose flattering bosom courts the Sun, The pageant of a gilded hour,

The convent's simple hearts hath won! “Obsequious meapness ! ever prone

To watch the patron's turving eye; No will, po motion of its own !

'Tis this they love, for this they sigh: Go, splendid sycophant! no more

Display thy soft seductive arts ! The flattering cline of courts explore,

Nor spoil the convent's simple hearts. “ To me their praise more justly due,

Of longer bloom, and happier grace! Whom changing months unalter'd view,

And find them in my fond embrace." " How well,” the modest flower replied,

“ Can Euvy's wrested eye elude The obvious bounds that still divide

Foul Flattery from fair Gratitude.

“ Our hearts no fears but duteous fears,

No charm but duty's charm can move? We shed no tears but holy tears

Of tender penitence aud love. “ See there the envious world pourtray'd

In that dark look, that creeping pace! No flower can bear the Ivy's shade;

No tree support its cold embrace. " The oak that rears it from the ground,

And bears its tendrils to the skies, Feels at his heart the rankling wound,

And in its poisonous arms he dies.” Her moral thus the matron read,

Studious to teach her children dear, And they by love, or duty led,

With pleasure heard, or seem'd to hear. Yet one less duteous, not less fair,

(In convents still the tale is known) The fable heard with silent care,

But found a moral of her own.
The flower that smil'd along the day,

And droop'd in tears at evening's fall; Too well she found her life display,

Too well her fatal lot recall.
The treacherous Ivy's gloomy shade,

That murder'd what it most embrac'd, Too well that cruel scene convey'd

Which all her fairer hopes effac'd.

Her heart with silent horrour shook ;

Gliding o'er thy yielding mind, With sighs she sought her lonely cell:

Leave sweet serenity behind, To the dim light she cast one look;

While all disarm'd, the cares of day
And bade once more the world farewell.

Steal thro' the falling gloom away?
Lore to think thy lot was laid

In this undistinguish'd shade.

Far from the world's infectious view,

Thy little virtues safely blew.

Go, and in day's more dangerous hour, There are that love the shades of life,

Guard thy emblematic flower."
And sbun the splendid walks of fame;
There are that hold it rueful strife
To risk ambition's los ing game;

That far from Envy's lurid eye

THE LAUREL AND THE REED. The fairest fruits of genius rear, Content to see them bloom and die,

The reed' that once the shepherd blew In Friendship’s small but kindly sphere.

On old Cephisus' hallow'd side,

To Sylla's cruel bow apply'd,
Than vainer flowers tho' sweeter far,
The evening Primrose shuns the day ;

Its inoffensive master slew.
Blooms only to the western star,

Stay, bloody soldier, stay thy hand, And loves its solitary ray.

Nor take the shepherd's gentle breath : In Eden's vale an aged bind,

Thy rage let innocence withstand;

Let music soothe the thirst of death.
At the dim twilight's closing hour,
On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,

He frown'd-he bade the arrow fly-
With wonder view'd the opening flower.

The arrow smote the tupeful swain;

No more its tone his lip shall try, “ IIl-fated flower, at eve to blow,"

Nor wake its vocal soul again. In pity's simple thought he cries, “Thy bosom must not feel the glow

Cephisus, from his sedgy urn, Of splendid suns, or smiling skies.

With woe beheld the sanguine deed; Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,

He mourn'd, and, as they heard him mourn, The bamlet's little train behold;

Assenting sigh'd each trembling reed. Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,

“ Fair offspring of my waves," he cried; When thine the falling shades unfold.

“That bind my brows, my banks adorn, “Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds,

Pride of the plains, the river's pride, When love has fill'd his heart with cares, For music, peace, and beauty born! For flowers he rifles all the meads,

“ Ah ! what, unheedful have we done? For waking flowers-but thine forbears.

What demons here in death delight?) “ Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom

What fiends that curse the social Sun?
On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath : What furies of infernal night?
Let smiling suns those gems illume!
Fair flower, to live unseen is death."

“See, see my peaceful shepherds bleed!

Each heart in harmony that vy'd, Soft as the voice of vernal gales

Smote by its own melodious reed,
That o'er the bending meadow blow,

Lies cold, along my blashing side.
Or streams that steal thro' even vales,
And murmur that they move so slow :

“ Back to your urn, my waters, fly;

Or find in earth some secret way; Deep in her unfrequented bower,

For horrour dims yon conscious sky,
Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain;

And Hell has issu'd into day.”
The bird of eve approv'd her flower,
And answered thus the anxious swain.

Thro' Delpbi's holy depth of shade

The sympathetic sorrows ran; " Live unseen!

While in his dim and mournful glade By moonlight shades, in valleys green,

The Genius of her groves began: Lovely flower, we'll live unseen.

“ In vain Cephisus sighs to save Of our pleasures deem not lightly,

The swain that Joves his watry mead,
Laughing Day may look more sprightly,
But I love the modest mien,

And weeps to see bis reddening wave,

And mourns for his perverted reed:
Still I love the modest mien
Of gentle Evening fair, and her star-train'd“ In vain my violated groves

Must I with equal grief bewail,

While desolation sternly roves,
“ Didst thou, shepherd, never find,
Pleasure is of pepsive kind ?

And bids the sanguine hand assail.
Hast thy cottage never known
That she loves to live alone?

1 The reeds on the banks of the Cephisus, of Dost thon not at evening hour

which the shepherds made their pipes, Sylla's Feel some soft and secret power,

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" God of the genjal stream, behold

'Twas thus of old a poet pray'd; My laurel shades of leaves so bare !

Th’indulgent power his pray'r approv'd, Those leaves no poet's brows enfold,

And, ere the gather'd rose could fade, Nor bind Apullo's golden hair.

Restor'd him to the scenes he lov'd. Like thy fair offspring, misapply'd,

A rose, the poet's favourite flower, Far other purpose they supply ;

From Flora's cultur'd walks he bore; The murderer's burning cheek to hide,

No fairer bloom'd in Esber's Lower, And on his frownful temples die.

Nor Prior's charming Chloe wore. * Yet deem not these of Pluto's race,

No fairer flowers could Fancy twine Whom wounded Nature sues in vain;

To hide Anacreon's snowy hair; Pluto disclaims the dire disgrace,

For there Almeria's bloom divine,
And cries, indignant, They are men.”

And Elliot's sweetest blush was there.
When she, the pride of courts, retires,

And leaves for shades a nation's love,

With awe the village maid admires,

How Waldegrave looks, how Waldegrave THE GARDEN ROSE AND THE

moves. WILD ROSE.

So marvell'd much in Enon's shade As Dee, whose current, free from stain,

The flowers that all uncultur'd grew, Glides fair o'er Merioneth's plain,

When there the splendid Rose display'd By mountains forc'd bis way to steer,

Her swelling breast and shining hue. Along the lake of Pimble Mere,

Yet one, that oft adorn'd the place Darts swiftly thro' the stagnaut mass,

Where now ber gaudy rival reign'd, His waters trembling as they pass,

Of simpler bloom, but kindred race, And leads his lucid waves below,

The pensive Eglantine coinplain'd.—: Upmix'd, unsullied as they flow

“ Mistaken youth," with sighs she said, So clear thro' life's tumultuous tide,

“From Nature and froin me to stray! So free could Thought and Fancy glide;

The bard, by splendid forms betray'd,
Could Hope as sprightly bold her course,

No more shall frame the purer lay.
As first she left her native source,
Unsought in her romantic cell

“ Luxuriant, like the flaunting Rose, The keeper of her dreams might dwell.

And gay the brilliant strains may be, “ But ab! they will not, will not last- But far, in beauty, far from those, When life's first fairy stage is past,

That flow'd to Nature and to me." The glowing hand of Hope is cold;

The poet felt, with fond surprise, And fancy lives not to be old.

The truths the sylvan critic told; Darker, and darker all before ;

And, “Though this courtly Rose,” he cries, We turn the former prospect o'er;

“ Is gay, is beauteous to behold; And find in Memory's faithful eye Our little stock of pleasures lie.

" Yet, lovely flower, I find in thee “ Come, then; thy kind recesses ope!

Wild sweetness which no words express, Fair keeper of the dreams of Hope!

And charms in thy simplicity,
Come with thy visionary train,

That dwell not in the pride of dress."
And bring my morning scenes again!
To Enon's wild and silent shade,
Where oft my lonely youth was laid;

What time the woodland Genius came,
And touch'd me with his holy flame.-

THE VIOLET AND THE PANSY. » “ Or, where the hermit, Bela, leads, Her waves thro' solitary meads;

Suzpuerd, if near thy artless breast And only fecds the desert-flower,

The god of food desires repair;
Where once she sooth'd my slumbering hour : Implore him for a gentle guest,
Or rous'ci by Staiumore's wintry sky,

Implore him with unwearied prayer.
She wearies Echo with her cry ;
And oft, what storms her bosom tear,

Should beauty's soul-enchanting smile,
Her deeply-wounded banks declare.

Love-kindling looks, and features gay, " Where Eden's fairer waters flow,

Should these thy wandering eye beguile, By Milton's bower, or Osty's brow,

And steal thy wareless heart away ; Or Bruckley's alder-shaded care,

That heart shall soon with sorrow swell, Or, windiug round the Druid's grave,

And soon the erring eye deplore, Silently glide, with pious fear

If in the beauteous bosom dwell To sound his holy slumbers near.

No gentle virtue's genial store. " To these fair scenes of Faucy's reign,

Far from his hive one summer-day,

A young and yet unpractis'd bee, O Memory! bear me once again:

Borne on bis tender wings away, For, when life's variel scenes are past,

Went forth the flowery world to see. 'Tis simple Nature charms at last."


The morn, the noon in play he pass'd,

In all the pomp of eastern state, But when the shades of evening came,

In all the eastern glory gay, No parent brought the due repast,

He bade, with native pride elate, And faintness seiz'd his little frame.

Each flower of humbler birth obey. By nature urg'd, by instinct led,

0, that the child unborn might hear, The bosom of a flower he sought,

Nor hold it strange in distant time, Where streams mourn'd round a mossy bed, That freedom e'en to flowers was dear, And violets all the bank enwrought.

To flowers that bloom'd in Britain's clime! Of kindred race, but brighter dies,

Through purple meads, and spicy gales, On that fair bank a Pansy grew,

Where Strymon's' silver waters play, That borrow'd from indulgent skies

While far from hence their goddess dwells, A velvet shade and purple bue.

She rules with delegated sway.
The tints that stream'd with glossy gold, That sway the Crown Imperial sought,
The velvet shade, the purple bue,

With high demand and haughty mien: The stranger wonder'd to behold,

But equal claim a rival brought, And to its bounteous bosom flew.

A rival call'd the Meadow's Queen. Not fonder haste the lover speeds,

" In climes of orient glory born, At evening's fall, his fair to meet;

Where beauty first and empire grew; When o'er the bardly-bending meads

Where first unfolds the golden morn, He springs on more than mortal feet.

Where richer falls the fragrant dew: Nor glows his eyes with brighter glee,

“ In light's ethereal beauty drest, When stealing near her orient breast,

Bebold," he cried, “the favour'd flower, Than felt the fond enamour'd bee,

Which Flora's high commands invest When first the golden bloom he prest.

With ensigns of imperial power ! Ah! pity much his youth untry'd,

“ Where prostrate vales, and blushing meads, His heart in beauty's magic spell !

And bending mountains own his sway, So never passion thee betide,

While Persia's lord his empire leads, But where the genial virtues dwell.

And bids the trembling world obey; In vain he seeks those virtnes there;

" While blood bedews the straining bow', No soul-sustaining charms abound :

And conquest rends the scatter'd air, No honey'd sweetness to repair

'Tis mine to bind the victor's brow, The languid waste of life is found.

And reign in envy'd glory there. An aged bee, whose labours led

“ Then lowly bow, ye British flowers! Thro' those fair springs, apd meads of gold, Confess your monarch's mighty sway, His feeble wing, bis drooping head

And own the only glory yours, Beheld, and pitied to behold.

When fear flies trembling to obey.” “ Fly, fond adventurer, fly. the art

He said, and sudden o'er the plain, That courts thine eye with fair attire;

From flower to flower a murmur ran, Who smiles to win the heedless heart,

With modest air, and milder strain, Will smile to see that heart expire.

When thus the Meadow's Queen began : " This modest flower of humbler bue,

« If vain of birth, of glory vain, That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,

Or fond to bear a regal name, Array'd in unbespangled blue,

The pride of fully brings disdain, The simple clothing of the skies

And bids me urge a tyrant's claim : “ This fuwer, with balmy sweetness blest, “ If war my peaceful realms assail, Nay yet thy languid life renew:”

And then, unmov'd by pity's call, Ile said, and to the Violet's breast

I smile to see the bleeding vale,
The little vagrant faintly flex.

Or feel one joy in Nature's fall,
“ Then may each justly vengeful flower

Pursue her queen with geu'rous strife,

Nor leave the hand of lawless power

Such compass on the scale of life. THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW “ One simple firtue all my pride! AND THE CROWN IMPERIAL. The wish that flies to mis'ry's aid;

The balm that stops the crimson tide, From Bactria's vales, where beauty blows

And heals the wounds that war has made.” Luxuriant in the genial ray; Where flowers a bolder gem disclose,

Their free consent by zephyrs borne, And deeper drink the golden day.

The flowers their Meadow's Queen obey;

And fairer blushes crown'd the morn,
From Pactria's vales to Britain's shore

And sweeter fragrance fill'd the day.
What time the Crown Imperial came,
Full high the stately stranger bore

"The Ionian Strymon. The honours of his birth and name.

? The property of that flower.

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