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[Chang alone, upon a hill commanding a wide and
various prospect. The River flowing immediately beneath. Time, Noon.]
“Ha! ha! roll on thou glorious Wave!
“Sing out thou fresh and mirthful Air ! “ Joy! joy! my free heart now can brave
“ Your taunts 'twas madness once to bear! “ The wild voice of your liberty
“ Can mock my sullen soul no more! “ _How bright are ye, sweet Earth and Sky, - That were so dark before!
[Motioning away a herd of cattle that
approach towards him gazing.] “ Away! away! my heart is coy;
“ Nature is now my Empire! None
“Shall share awhile my new-found throne ! “Ha! ha! the joy—the bounding joy
“ To be alone-ALONE!"
And on he sped—and, aye, his tread
Was light as if his heart was there ! And (his path beside) the River's tide,
Danced featly to the piping Air.
From the herbage young* the laverock sprung,
And the bird with the jetty wing That Alieth low by the copse--alsó
Sang its hymn to the loving Spring !
And the Sun shone bright—and the happy light
On the greenwood glade was quivering, While the birds in and out the boughs about
Made the deft leaves softly shivering.
Delight was mirror'd on the Earth,
The very clouds were gay;
He came unto a silent pool,
Smooth lay the wave scarce ripplé-ing,
*“ And softè as velvet the yonge grass."-Chaucer.
Silent he stood, and gazed upon
The fish were glancing through the tide,
The fairy birds rejoicing by,
The witness of his ecstacy!
And there for hours he staid, until
And o'er his face a graver thought
His eyes upon the earth, nor sought Round, as before, each thing most fair The rapture of his soul to share.
From Truth, how blest soever, flown,
His heart is now on visions dwelling, That love no more a mock to own
He dreams to Mary he is telling.
Poor youth !-what thoughts—what hopes are his !
And coloured by the present mood The future glows; and on its bliss No fear-no doubt intrude.
Mary his own, through life to roam,
And well we may conceive he ne'er
Remarked aught odious or unseemly In features all his nation share,
And think-so Crauford says-extremely Handsome: worse errors here have root, I Have heard such Gorgons praised for beauty !
(For every where our lawless taste
And, after all, there are some hours
The thought—the mere thought-to despond.