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My hopes are with the dead: anon

With them my place will be; And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

NIGHT IN THE DESERT.
FROM " THALABA."

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orbed beauty yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths:
Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!
The spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbbed in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles
Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved;
The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death;
How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers

Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of eternity!

I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,

To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err!

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure. Edmund! we did not err!

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy; The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off;

Oh, if it could be so,

It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,
But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;
Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse;

And though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.

IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN.

Lord! who art merciful as well as just,
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust!
Not what I would, O Lord, I offer thee,
Alas! but what I can.

Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to heaven, for thou art there,
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer:
Four things which are not in thy treasury
I say before thee, Lord, with this petition-
My nothingness, my wants,
My sins, and my contrition.

THE MORNING MIST.

Look, William, how the morning mists
Have covered all the scene;
Nor house nor hill canst thou behold,
Gray wood or meadow green.

The distant spire across the vale
These floating vapors shroud;
Scarce are the neighboring poplars seen,
Pale shadowed in the cloud.

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To you the beauties of the antumnal year
Make mournful emblems; and you think of man
Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken,
Bending beneath the burden of his years,

Sense - dulled and fretful, "full of aches and pains,"

Yet clinging still to life. To me they show
The calm decay of nature, when the mind
Retains its strength, and in the languid cyo
Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy

That makes old age look lovely. All to you
Is dark and cheerless; you, in this fair world,
See some destroying principle abroad—
Air, earth, and water, full of living things,
Each on the other preying; and the ways
Of man a strange, perplexing labyrinth,
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope
That should in death bring comfort.

friend,

Oh, my

That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see
Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction! couldst behold
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world
With the strong eye that sees the promised day
Dawn through this night of tempest! All things
then

Would minister to joy; then should thine heart

Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel God always, everywhere, and all in all.

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er

The morning hours of life?
Nay, William, nay, not so!

In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun
I do not wish again

The changeful April day.
Nay, William, nay, not so!
Safe havened from the sea

I would not tempt again

The uncertain ocean's wrath.

Praise be to Him who made me what I am,

Other I would not be.

Why is it pleasant, then, to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often in his wanderings
The thought of those far off
Has made his eyes o'erflow

With no unmanly tears;

Delighted he recalls

Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have trod.
But ever when he tells of perils past,
And troubles now no more,

His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy
Flows thankful from his heart.

No, William, no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life;
I would not be again

The slave of hope and fear;

I would not learn again

The wisdom by experience hardly taught.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives

All cause for full content.

The future-it is now the cheerful noon, And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze With eyes alive to joy;

When the dark night descends,

I willingly shall close my weary lids
In sure and certain hope to wake again.

Mrs. Margaret Maxwell Inglis.

Mrs. Inglis, daughter of Dr. Alexander Maxwell, was Lorn at Lanquhar, Scotland, in 1774. In 1803 she married Mr. John Inglis, who died in 1826. She was eminently gifted as a musician, and was complimented by Burns for the effect she gave to his songs. In 1838 she published a "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems." She died in Edinburgh, 1843.

FROM LINES ON THE DEATH OF HOGG."

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
Where art thou wandering?
Missed is thy foot on the mountain and lea!
Why round yon craggy rocks
Wander thy heedless flocks,

While lambies are listening and bleating for thee?
Cold as the mountain-stream,

Pale as the moonlight beam,

Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
Wild may the tempest's wave

Sweep o'er thy lonely grave:

Thou'rt deaf to the storm-it is harmless to thee.

Cold on Benlomond's brow
Flickers the drifted snow,

While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
Winter's mad winds may sweep
Fierce o'er each glen and steep,

Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
And when on dewy wing

Comes the sweet bird of spring,

Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree,
The Bird of the Wilderness,

Low in the waving grass,

Shall, cowering, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

Robert Tannahill.

A favorite lyrical poet, Tannahill (1744–1810) was born in Paisley, Scotland. His education was limited, and he followed the trade of a weaver till his twenty-sixth year, when he removed to Lancashire. In 1807 he published a volume of poems, and an edition of nine hundred was sold in a few weeks. Falling into a state of morbid despondency and mental derangement, he committed suicide, by drowning, in his thirty-sixth year. In 1874 a centenary edition of his poems was published, which was exhausted within a few days of its appearance. James Hogg visited Tannahill in the spring of 1810. "Farewell," said the latter at parting, as he grasped the shepherd's hand; "we shall never meet again. I shall never see you more."

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its sauft fauldin' blossom!

And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green, Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening;

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum

blane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amid its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,

Where the blae-berries blow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae1

Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day

On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my dearie.
1 Roe.

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When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night-breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing

As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer's in prime,

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

Joseph Blanco White.

A native of Seville, son of an Irish Roman Catholic merchant settled in Spain, White (1775-1841) was the author of what Coleridge calls "the finest and most grandly conceived sonnet in our language"-words which he slightly modifies by adding, "at least it is only in Milton's and in Wordsworth's sonnets that I recollect any rival ;" and he adds that this is the judg ment of J. H. Frere also. Leigh Hunt says: "It stands supreme, perhaps above all in any language: nor can we ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence:" White's biography, edited by John Hamilton Thom (London, 1845), in which his sceptical and religious strug gles are unfolded, is of the deepest interest. He was the friend or correspondent of Coleridge, Arnold, and the great American preacher, Channing. Ordained a Catholic priest in 1799, he abjured the faith in which he had been bred, and published in 1825 a work entitled "Internal Evidence against Catholicism." He seems to have wavered to the last in his religious belief, but to have been, nevertheless, an earnest, sincere seeker after the truth, as well as a vigorous writer.

It may be interesting to compare this famous sonnet in its present state with its original form, as it appears in the London Gentleman's Magazine (May, 1835), and as it was supplied by the Rev. R. P. Graves, of Dublin, who knew White, to David M. Main for his "Treasury of English Sonnets" (1880):

"Mysterions Night! when the first Man but knew
Thee by report, unseen, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely Frame,
This glorious canopy of Light and Blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting Flame,
Hesperus with the Host of Heaven came,
And lo! Creation widened on his view!

Who could have thought what Darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such endless Orbs thou mad'st us blind?

Weak man! why to shun Death this anxious strife? If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ?" Some critics prefer the original form of White's sonnet to the amended. Coleridge's daughter, Sara, wrote the following on the death of White. In it she refers

to the scepticism of his latter days in regard to revealed religion.

BLANCO WHITE.

"Couldst thon in calmness yield thy mortal breath,
Without the Christian's sure and certain hope?
Didst thou to earth confine our being's scope,
Yet, fixed on One Supreme with fervent faith,
Prompt to obey what conscience witnesseth,
As one intent to fly the eternal wrath,
Decline the ways of sin that downward slope?
O thou light-searching spirit! that didst grope

In such bleak shadows here, 'twixt life and death,

To thee dare I bear witness, though in ruth
(Brave witness like thine own!),-dare hope and pray
That thou, set free from this imprisoning clay,
Now clad in raiment of perpetual youth,

May find that bliss untold, 'mid endless day,
Awaits each earnest soul that lives for Truth!"

We give from the autobiography of White another sonnet from his pen, not before included, we believe, in any collection. He wrote but two. Mr. Thom says of him: "He never stepped off any old ground of Faith until he could no longer stand on it without moral culpability."

NIGHT AND DEATH.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay con-
cealed

Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

SONNET,

ON HEARING MYSELF FOR THE FIRST TIME CALLED AN
OLD MAN. ÆT. 50.

Ages have rolled within my breast, though yet
Not nigh the bourn to fleeting man assigned:
Yes: old-alas! how spent the struggling mind
Which at the noon of life is fain to set!
My dawn and evening have so closely met

That men the shades of night begin to find
Darkening my brow; and heedless, not unkind,
Let the sad warning drop, without regret.
Gone Youth! had I thus missed thee, nor a hope
Were left of thy return beyond the tomb,
I could curse life:-But glorious is the scope
Of an immortal soul!-O Death! thy gloom,
Short, and already tinged with coming light,
Is to the Christian but a Summer's night!

John Leyden.

A distinguished Oriental scholar, as well as poet, Leyden (1775-1811) was a native of Denholm, in Scotland. The son of humble parents, he fought his way bravely to knowledge. An excellent Latin and Greek scholar, he acquired also the French, Spanish, Italian, and German, besides studying the Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew. In 1800 he was ordained for the Church, but wishing to visit India, qualified himself as assistant-surgeon on the Madras establishment, and in 1802 left Scotland forever. He finally received the appointment of judge in Calcutta. In 1811 he accompanied the expedition to Java, took cold in a damp library in Batavia, and died in three days. Sir Walter Scott, in his "Lord of the Isles," throws a wreath on his grave. The "Poetical Remains of Leyden" were published in 1819, with a memoir by the Rev. James Morton. His longest poem is his "Scenes of Infancy," descriptive of his native vale of Teviot. His versification is smooth and melodious, and his style rather elegant than forcible. His ballad of "The Mermaid" is praised by Sir Walter Scott as "for mere melody of sound seldom excelled in English poetry." Leyden had a presentiment of his early death in a foreign land.

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.
WRITTEN IN MALABAR.

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Cherical's dark, wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child;
Of castled rocks stupendous piled

By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Glooms baleful as the tomb-fire drear:

A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely, widowed heart to chcer: Her eyes are dim with many a tear That once were guiding stars to mine; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart; the grave, Dark and untimely, met my view— And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! com'st thou now, so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne ? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey,

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

SONNET ON THE SABBATH MORNING. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still; A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, And echo answers softer from the hill, And softer sings the linnet from the thorn; The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; The sun a placid yellow lustre throws: The gales, that lately sighed along the grove, Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move :So smiled the day when the first morn arose.

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