Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before, Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

As, when the ebbing flames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.

But now, dear LONG, 't is midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful scat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away ; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY.

Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,

And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull'd by zephyr to repose.

On! had my fate been join'd with thine,

As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not then been mine,

For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another;

Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose,

The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;

Eis a wife, and a mother, And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,

Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear LONG, 't was time to flee;

For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas ! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid !

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measuresIf thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :

This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flushed,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal

In spite of every vain endeavour,And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know that thou art lost for ever.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. And woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now,

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men

I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD.

WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH

LANDER.

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

[snow ! And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;

Need I say, my sweet Mary,'t was centred in you?

I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me : Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss :
Truth !--wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?
I loved-but those I loved are gone;

Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead !
Though gay companions o'cr the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart-the heart-is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour.

D%

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,

What passion can dwell the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;

(with you. And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,

From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my And warm to the skies my devotions arose, (view;

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no As the last of my race, I must wither alone, (more;

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot; More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew :

(not forgot; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

And though some trifiing share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,

To prove a prophet here.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN

THE CHURCH YARD OF HARROW.

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine !

Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

and critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell

of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,

A very harden'd sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due :

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;

My muse admires digression.
I think I said 't would be your fate
To add one star to royal state;

May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,

If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!

May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,

And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spytless as you've been known to me,-

Bestill as you are now

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours a way;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, (mine:
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
“Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd And calm its cares and passions into rest, (breast, Oft have I thought,'t would soothe my dying hour,-If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell; With this fond dream, mcthinks 't were sweet to

dieAnd here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps

moyed; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside.

Septemter 2, 1807.

THE ADIEU.

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE

AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.

ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy

Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy

With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or focs,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell

Unconscious of the day,
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,

Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,

And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu ! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,

These scenes must be effaced. Adieu, ye mountains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime

His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam ?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,

To seek a Sotheron home!
Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell -

Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view :
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,

Forgets its wonted simple note
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,

In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,

While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear,
Streamlet ! along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,

At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,

Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,

Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise and rivers roll between

The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,

To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gern;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;

Let Pride alone condemn!
All, all is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit
Can warın my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,
To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the deed.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;

On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,

Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,

My life a short and vulgar dream :
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,

My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,

Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,

Where now my head must lay,
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,