Poems by Three Friends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems by Three Friends

[by J. H. Wiffen]

Wiffen, Jeremiah Holmes (1792-1836)

[section]

[epigraph]

TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

INTRODUCTION.

POEMS, ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

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[_]

The joint authors of this book have also been identified as James Baldwin Brown and Thomas Raffles, though the authorship of individual poems has not been identified.

We twine in this poetic wreath,
The purple blossoms of the heath,
And many a lovelier wilding flower
That bloomed in Spring's too fleeting hour,
With some whose deeper, richer, dye,
Was nursed by Summer's natal sky.
Alike to live their little day,
Charm a few eyes—then fade away.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

O thou! whose sweet, whose magic shell
In sleep the heart of grief can bind,
And lull wit its enchanting swell,
In airy dreams the ravished mind!

Propitious, on thy natal hour,
The smiling Muse delighted hung,
And nursed thee in her sacred bower,
And taugh her sweetest, holiest song.

xii

Taught thee to scorn the syren lay,
Whose treacherous and seductive breath
Lures us from Virtue's smile away
To pangs of woe,—to shades of death.

She bade thee with diviner aim,
Direct the impassioned spirit high,
To soar on seraph wing of flame,
An angel—in its native sky.

And with those strains of sainted fire,
An earthlier melody to suit,
She gave with Hope's entrancing lyre,
The melting voice of Pity's lute.

For oft has meek Compassion bled,
The mild, yet mournful tale to hear,
Of cherished joys for ever fled,
And thy poor Gertrude's hallowed bier.

xiii

And when that wondrous lyre has peal'd
Its hymns of transport on the wind,
The enchantress Fancy has revealed
Her heavenly image from behind;

And told of Life's untroubled state,
With such a sweet, persuasive tone,
As won the bosom to create
A happy valley of its own;

Where the torn heart from sorrow free,
Each sullen cloud of woe may miss,
Or when by tempests threatened, flee
Within its hemisphere of bliss,

And lingering near the Muse's bower,
By hallowed mount, and haunted well,
We too have heard at twilight hour,
Prophetic murmurs in its swell.

xiv

Somewhat it speaks of future joy,
The fluttering of our fears to soothe,
Of visions seen in Fancy's eye,
Bright as our yesterday of youth.

What though those visions, bright and clear,
On swiftest wing may fleet away,
And leave no lingering light to cheer
The dark, the melancholy day.

What though the learned critic-sage,
With cynic eye, and brow of gloom,
May frown upon our simple page,
Nor let the bud of Fancy bloom.—

Enough! if Care it should beguile,
One little hour bid Grief rejoice,
From Beauty with the partial smile,
From Virtue, the applauding voice.

And Thou, whose lettered morning calm,
Spent in Edina's classic shade,
Hath won the bright unfading palm,
To riper years reluctant paid!

O, should thy kind, indulgent eye,
Propitious on our tuneful task,
Beam in its mild benignity,
No fairer guerdon will we ask.—

Though wild the flowers our youth has twin'd
To blush upon thy laurelled brow,
Thy generous heart, thy liberal mind,
Will not forbid those flowers to blow.

For not at Pride's unholy call,
The venal fume of praise we bring;
Truth! Fancy! Genius! Virtue!—all
Demand a nobler offering.

xvi

They claim whate'er the Theban lyre
Has vaunted of the sons of earth;—
O, for a spark of Theban fire,
To give the imaged transport birth!

xvii

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INTRODUCTION.

Through Nature's realms benignant heaven
Has various times and seasons given;
But each so ranged as to produce
With separate emblems, separate use.
And first the fairy hands of Spring
Around her grateful odours fling,
And nourish every nascent flower
That blooms but for its transient hour,
Then sheds at eve upon the earth,
The treasures with them seed to pay
The tribute of a future day.
And does it seem a useless waste
To nurture sweets so quickly past?
Autumn would seek her fruits in vain,
If gay Spring's evanescent train

xviii

In Winter's lingering frosts were bound,
Or strewn by blights upon the ground.
And when the race of Spring is run,
Faded her flowers, her blossoms gone,
With bursting germ the infant fruit,
So long the blossoms' sheltered root,
Needing no more their fostering care,
Strewn their last fragrance on the air,
Boldly prepares its thickening rind,
To meet the mingled sun and wind,
Of late that have proclaimed on earth,
The death of Spring, and Summer's birth;
Perhaps to live, perhaps to die,
The victims of temerity.
Then Summer's sun, whose ardent heat
Destroys each fair, but fading sweet,
That formed the gay, luxuriant train
Of Spring's too short, but gentle reign,
Smiles with benignant ray upon
The hardier flower it calls its own,

xix

And each rich plant of deeper dye,
That emblems proud maturity.—
To that fierce sun's expiring beam,
Quickly succeeds a milder gleam,
Embrowning in a softer shade,
The hawthorn hedge, and copsewood glade;
Where rests the wearied hand of toil,
From gathering in the varied spoil,
That Spring and Summer's heat and rain
Prepare for Autumn's festal train.
No season this for vernal bloom,
For varied dyes, or rich perfume;
The charms its mellower tints produce,
Have less of splendour, more of use.
Though trees no longer blossom fair,
The clustering fruit hangs ripened there.
Where mingled once at spring-tide grew
The corn blade green, and floweret blue,
The stem we passed neglected by,
Lured by the harebell's lovelier dye,

Now that its rival's charms are fled,
Rears proudly high its yellow head,
With grains of present plenty rife,
Teeming with seeds of future life;
And reads to man monition high,
Of pleasures blooming but to die,
Whilst Virtue's seeds to culture given,
Lie hid in earth, to bloom in heaven.
Nor this the only lesson read,
When Autumn's leaves are withered;
As fall they round us one by one,
Their death may warn us of our own,
Or call to mind each name endear'd
Of kindred loved, of friends rever'd
Who, withered like an Autumn-leaf,
Hear not our bursting sobs of grief
More than the wintry winds that rave
O'er the dread stillness of the grave.
This read to Man!—her lowering sky
To Nature speaks of changes nigh;

xxi

For winds that lay her tresses low,
Will soon in hoarser murmurs blow;
And rains that on her parting hour
Weep in a sad but mingled shower,
As though the tears of Nature, chill'd
By adverse power, but half distill'd
Their dewy sorrows on the earth,
And half were frozen in their birth—
Those mingled rains no longer flow,
But fall in deepening showers of snow,
Which frozen on the sullen plain
Are swept by drifting winds in vain.
Fades too each rich, but sombre dye
That mellowed Autumn's evening sky;
No golden corn its head uprears,
No fruit of deeper tint appears;
Withers each leaf and wilding flower,
That lingered till her parting hour;
For all that rendered Nature gay,
With that sad hour have passed away;

xxii

And wears she now her robes of gloom,
To mourn o'er vegetation's tomb,
As the dread mandate is sent forth
To rouse the tempests of the north;
That come with ruthless haste to clear
Each lovelier emblem from the year,
Scarce leaving as memento brief
The parted Autumn's withered leaf.
Then Frost, with all his gelid train,
Proclaims dark Winter's cheerless reign.
Cheerless to him at least whose care
Failed him in Summer to prepare
Those generous stores that have the charm,
Each wintry terror to disarm,
Night's lengthened tedium to beguile,
And bid her barren desert smile.
Though not to him these terrors rise,
Whose toils beneath more element skies,
Fail not for Winter to secure
Each blessing labour can procure.

xxiii

For seated by his blazing fire,
He bids each gloomy thought retire;
And careless hears the tempest blow,
And views with joy the deepening snow
That fosters, in its secret birth,
Each teeming seedling of the earth,
Preserved to shoot in future Spring,
Fair Nature's earliest offering.

Thus will Man's life, his talents all,
Know bud of Spring, and Winter's fall,
Maturing Summer's genial heat,
And sober Autumn's cool retreat;
If sudden blights, or ills that rise
From cold damp winds or parching skies,
In Summer's prime, or Spring's gay bloom
Haste not the Winter of the tomb.—
In Spring the buds of Virtue shoot,
Which ripen into Autumn fruit;

xxiv

Rises in Spring each sudden blight,
That nips those flowers of pure delight,
Yet leaves to blossom wild and free,
The weeds of Vice and Misery.—
If on our path the Muse has smil'd,
Blooms in our Spring her blossoms wild,
Perhaps to live like fragile flower,
The children of the passing hour;
Or haply destined to survive,
As long a date as Spring can give.
But year on year careering fast,
The Spring of Life is swiftly past,
And Summer gives not lengthened hours
To culture nought but fading flowers.
To those maturer hours belong
The moral strain, the loftier song,
That scorns the sweet, but idle theme
Of fond enthusiast's youthful dream.
And God and Men alike demand
No trivial labours at his hand,

xxv

To whom are splendid talents given—
To teach to man the ways of heaven;
To frame in senates righteous laws,
In courts to plead the rightful cause;
Instructors of the mind of youth,
To train it in the paths of Truth;—
On them as Learning's sun has shone,
The fields of Science are their own;
So be they cultured, to produce
Meet harvest for the public use.
But not alone from grafted shoot
Does Autumn ask her clustered fruit:
To plants of wilder growth we owe
The dewberry, and the ripened sloe.
And thus though Life's autumnal hours
Have richer fruits from higher powers,
No soil so barren but will give
Some scion root, and bid it live.
Though few have splendid talents given,
All share the bounteous gifts of heaven;

xxvi

And all must answer their abuse,
As all may profit by their use.
For he whose Spring of life is spent
In culturing talents kindly lent,
For whom each fruit of Virtue pure,
The rays of Summer suns mature,
In Autumn gathers rich increase,
For Winter stores of rest and peace,
And seeds, he may reserve to bring
A tribute to returning Spring.
To us that Spring returns not here,
But, destined for a higher sphere,
As seeds of Virtue live to bloom
In fairer realms beyond the tomb,
The seeds of Vice—they die not there,
Meet semblance of the choking tare,
They, at the final harvest home,
Are gathered to their dreadful doom.

xxvii

But cease we here a moral strain
The Muse perhaps has woke in vain.
Our semblances have wandered wide,
And meeter now were they applied
To emblem this unpolished page,
The product of our greener age,
Which seems to ask from Stranger's eye,
The glance of mildest leniency.
In Spring's fair morn around us blew,
Poetic flowers of every hue;
And hours of idlesse to beguile,
Or win approving Beauty's smile,
Oft have we plucked the violet blue,
And rosebud, wet with morning dew;
The one, its transient fragrance o'er,
To fade and to be seen no more;
Whilst the wild bud, more richly blest,
On some fair bosom sinks to rest,
And thence by partial hand removed
To treasured store of gifts beloved,

xxviii

Perchance may live to distant hour,
A withered, yet a cherished flower.
And when, in more reflective mood,
We've pondered on that general good,
Which still should be the purpose high,
That wakes the fire of minstrelsy,
Our hands have touched with bolder stroke
Harps that a loftier music woke
At sacred Virtue's honoured name,
Or mild Religion's holier flame;
In hopes such blossoms might produce
Fruitage for life's autumnal use;
Or like perennial daisy bloom
On the drear Winter of the tomb.
But ah! our days of Spring are gone,
And some few Summer suns have shone
On hours with parting sigh resign'd
To higher culture of the mind.
For Life's changed scene can wear no more
The fairy garb which once it wore.

xxix

Each dear illusion of our youth,
Shrinks from the searching eye of Truth;
And with them there have passed away,
The loftier song, the lighter lay;
And we perhaps are doomed to sever
Chords that must now be dumb for ever;
And this may be the parting strain
Of harp that ne'er shall wake again.
For mindful why to man were given
His time, his powers by bounteous heaven—
Willing to pay the debt we owe,
With unreluctant hand we throw
Talents to self confined no more,
Our mite—into the public store;
And now with mingled hope and fear,
Engage in life's more active sphere.
Yet ere to duty is resign'd
An art that charmed our youthful mind,
That formed for love a guerdon fair,
And smoothed the ruffled brow of care,

xxx

We twine in this poetic wreath
The purple blossom of the heath,
And many a lovelier wilding flower
That bloomed in Spring's too fleeting hour;
With some, whose deeper, richer dye,
Was nurst by Summer's natal sky,
Alike to live their little day,
Charm a few eyes, then fade away—
By all forgot save those who knew
Each spot where first these wildings grew;
Or they, whose partial lips approve
The chaplet wreathed by those they love;
These on the eternal lists of Fame,
May wish to place each friendly name
With care from public ken conceal'd,
And only to themselves reveal'd
By strains which tell of hope and fear
Once poured in listening Beauty's ear,
Or those which soothed the hours of care
'Tis Friendship's privilege to share.

xxxi

But vain the wish—not these the lays
That merit an extended praise.
For e'en their parents cast behind
Each partial feeling to the wind,
And scarcely wish such flowers to live
A longer date than Spring will give.
Now bent their powers to higher aim
Of usefulness, if not of Fame,
That thus, if any lengthened hours
Be their's beyond these fading flowers,
Their Summer may be duly stored
With fruit for Autumn's genial board;
Then when her leaves have fallen around
And Life in wintry frost is bound,
They'll view unmoved the gathering gloom,
And sink with calmness to the tomb.

POEMS, ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

O thou! whose vast existence knows
No æra whence its ages ran,
But full and independent rose,
Ere yet Eternity began
Amid the dark and void profound,
To roll its mighty periods round.

Cause of all causes, and the source
Whence universal being sprang,
Thou wert, ere Time began its course,
Or morning stars thy praises sang;
When mighty pæans, loud and long,
Broke rapturous from the exulting throng.

Age upon age successive hurl'd,
And myriads join'd to myriads still,
The atoms that compose the world,
The drops that ocean's caverns fill;—
All but a trifling point appears,
Compar'd with thine eternal years.

Existing through all ages, Thou
The events of every age can'st tell,
All things above—all things below,
And all within the depths of hell.
For blazing noon, and midnight shades,
Alike thy piercing eye pervades.

Through the vast regions of the air,
The trackless wilderness of space,
The worlds and systems wandering there,
Thine everlasting arms embrace;
The various parts, the mighty whole,
Submissive own thy strong controul.

Thou first, Thou last, Thou cause and end
Of all that is, or e'er shall be;
To thee their source, all beings tend,
All things that are, exist for thee!
Thy great designs shall all fulfil,
And bow obedient to thy will!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HENRY's HARP;

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

“Time his triumphs shall proclaim,
“And his rich reward be this;—
“Immortality of fame,
“Immortality of bliss.”
Montgomery.

Why sleeps the tuneful harp that bore
The mournful song of Henry's pains;
Why does that tuneful harp no more,
Re-vibrate his melodious strains?

Is the bold hand which touch'd the strings,
Cold as the ice on Lapland's shore?
The mind which soared on eagle wings,
Say does it sleep to wake no more?

Lo! the sons of Genius wander,
Sorrowing for a brother's doom;
Where Granta's silver streams meander,
Sad, they weep o'er Henry's tomb.

Their sorrow tells us he no more
Shall wake the song of many woes;
He's landed on that silent shore,
Where every grief shall find repose.

Where no Critic's “painful duty”
Shall check the warblings of his lyre,
Where no haughty frown of Beauty
Can damp the youthful Poet's fire.

Death has ended all his troubles,
Bid his bosom sorrow cease,
Freed him from Life's empty bubbles,
Whispered to his spirit peace.

To silence hush'd his lyre's sweet notes,
Though here no more the Minstrel sings,
Through milder skies his music floats,
In brighter worlds he tunes the strings.

E'en angels bend to catch the sounds
That echo through yon vaulted sky,
As Henry's tuneful harp resounds
Its tones of seraph melody.

On earth he lov'd the ways of Heaven,
And kissed his father's chastening rod:—
Now to full perfection risen,
He mingles with the sons of God.

And if a mortal's praise can move
The minstrels of that hallow'd throng,
Hear it, bless'd shade, from one who loves
Thy sweetly soothing, solemn song.

One who often in thy pages,
Loves in each glowing line to trace
The fire of youth, the lore of ages,
A Dryden's strength—a Thomson's grace.

Pages o'er which, by feeling led,
Many a one shall sigh to see
Thy sorrows traced, and sighing shed
The tear of sensibility.

They shall live 'midst Critics' quarrels,
Vain to crush them, each endeavour;
Fame has crowned them with her laurels,
Genius bids them bloom for ever.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

FRAGMENT.

Oppress'd by woe and angry care,
The child of sorrow and despair
Reverts to times, long since gone by,
The sunshine of prosperity;
And as remembrance points the bliss,
Sighs for the days that once were his.
So bleeds the heart, when sorrow's blight
Has nipt the flower of young delight,
When we contrast the present scene
With what our other days have been.
Then pleasure from her airy bowers,
Strewed on our steps her choicest flowers,
And bade the exulting soul arise
To vision'd bliss beyond the skies.

Whilst we indulge the pleasing theme,
And rapturous view the fairy dream,
Should Recollection chance to glow,
Quick rise the scenes of pain and woe.
O then!—but close the mournful tale,
O drop the Grecian Painter's veil! [OMITTED]

By frantic thought to misery driven,
Ah! why to man was Memory given!
Led by her tyrant power, he strays
In Fortune's better, brighter days,
Till lost to sorrow, sense, and pain,
Delirious Madness whirls his brain! [OMITTED]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

AN ORPHAN GIRL'S REFLECTIONS.

While other children I behold,
Sportive and gay in gambols wild,
I weep and sigh when I am told,
“Poor girl, thou art an Orphan child.”

No mother's kiss—no father's smile
Has e'er my infant woes beguil'd;
They're dead, and I am left awhile
To weep, a helpless Orphan child.

Why am I doom'd the storm to brave,
From all a parent's love exiled?
I'd rather seek an early grave,
Than live—a friendless Orphan child!

No hand my wanderings to reclaim,
Mid scenes of infamy beguil'd—
How may I sink, o'erwhelm'd with shame,
A lost, abandon'd Orphan child.

Yet stay—forbear my heart to break!
On me one beam of joy has smil'd;
I've heard, that God will ne'er forsake
The poor, deserted Orphan child.

Will he at whose Almighty voice,
Creation rose from chaos wild,
With smiles of tenderness rejoice,
The heart of a poor Orphan child?

O yes! he sweetly whispers peace,
Soft are his words, his accents mild;
He bids me live,—he calls me his,—
O happy, happy Orphan child!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE TO MEDITATION.

“Sic ego secretis possum benè vivere silvis,
“Quà nulla humano fit via trita pede.
“Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrâ
“Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.”
Tibullus.

Come Meditation, heaven-born power!
Seek with me the shady bower,
Where classic Science spreads her eagle wing;
Or, at mellow Music's shrine,
Sweep with the tuneful Nine,
Upborne on Fancy's car, the warbling lyre:
While the fair Dryads join the festive choir,
And, on the light toe, form the sportive ring.

But where conceal'd art thou?
On Appenina's head of snow,
Mid storms of elemental war,
The mountain-torrent murmuring from afar?
Or in some sylvan glade,
Where the Genius of the shade,
Warbles deep the doric reed,
By some mossy fountain's side,
As the lonely moorhen sits,
Screaming o'er the sedgy tide;
Or rids't on the still clouds of starless night,
That roll in sullen gloom, impervious to the sight?

Methinks beneath yon pile I see thee lie,
Yon Gothic abbey wooes thy wandering feet,
O'er whose torn height, the screech owl's ivied seat,
The moon resplendent, rides athwart the sky.
The sheeted dead, in Fancy's eye,
Stalk along the gloomy aisle;
And Melancholy heaves the sigh,
Bending o'er the sainted pile.

Low at the rifted column's base,
Ravenous Ruin holds his place;
And giant Desolation from his bower,
Shakes the dismantled wall, and storms the tottering tower.

But leave the dim, monastic cells,
Where baleful Superstition dwells;
And seek thy dripping cave,
Beside the curling wave.
Here, undisturb'd, but by the murmuring gale,
That slowly wafts along the evening tide,
Thou sittest, thoughtful maid, and by thy side,
Virtue and Truth thy vesper sighs inhale.
Here too, sweet Poesy, her mild head rears,
And scatters from her brow Parnassian bays;
Her uprais'd arm grasps the Eolian lyre,
While soft she breathes her tuneful lays
In thy attentive ear.

O thou, the maid, whose heav'n-directing power,
With gifted Truth inspir'd the Athenian sage!
He, nursed by thee in Virtue's sacred bower,
Illum'd the darkness of an erring age,
And piercing Doubt with eagle eye,
Revealed the visions of Futurity.
O Meditation! let me dwell
For ever in thy halcyon cell,
Where, by thy heavenly spirit led,
To hold high converse with the dead,
The hallowed tracks I may explore,
Which he, thy lov'd Athenian trod before.

Socrates.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

If worth departed claims the Christian's sighs,
Here pause and weep, for here a Christian lies.
Her gentle spirit sought the poor to bless,
To bind up sorrow's wounds, and heal distress.
For this, shall Grief with tears bedew her sod,
And heaven-born Mercy plead her cause with God.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS EXPRESSING A WISH FOR THE POSSESSION OF POETICAL TALENT.

O! envy not the Muse's child,
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.

His is no pleasing task indeed,
Whose lips attune the Doric reed,
E'en should he gain the heights of fame,
The fondest wish his heart can frame.

His sweetest notes but round him bring
Dark envy with her venom'd sting,
And haughty scorn, that rudely smiles
Contemptuous on his minstrel wiles.

And he was marked for Passion's son,
When first the wild harp's dulcet tone
Caught his young ear, and bade him try
The soothing powers of minstrelsy.

His is the heart that's wont to feel
Deep interest in another's weal;
With joy at others' joy he glows,
And sheds the tear at others' woes.

Hence, formed to taste the highest bliss,
Affection's warmest pulse is his;
If Beauty's charms his bosom move,
A Minstrel's is no common love.

And should his darling hopes be crost,
He roves, by hurrying Passion tost,
His noble mind to ruin hurl'd,
A maniac in a scornful world.

Then envy not the Muse's child,
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.

I
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

MPROMPTU TO MARIANNE.

I ask not why the starting tear
Stands trembling in your eye;
I ask not why, when I am near,
You heave the frequent sigh;
For all too well, dear Girl, I know,
The source from whence thy sorrows flow.

This beating heart of mine will tell,
These faltering lips will prove,
Whilst murmuring out a long farewell
To her I fondly love,
That all too well, dear Girl, I know,
The source from whence thy sorrows flow.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ADDRESS TO THE SUN:

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

Hast thou left thy blue course in the circle of Heaven,
O thou that mov'st swiftly on high?
The west is unclosing the gates of dim even,
O golden-hair'd son of the sky!

The waves of the ocean behold thy bright glory,
They lift their green heads to thy beam;
While the purple-ting'd clouds sail with splendour before thee,
Illumed by thy last setting gleam.

But the foam-crested billows around thee are closing,
The waves thy bright beauty destroy;
Yet still in mild lustre they see thee reposing,—
Ah! let thy return be in joy.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN FOR AN ORPHAN.

O thou! beneath whose piercing eye,
Kingdoms, and worlds, and systems lie,
At whose command we live or die;
Lo, to thy footstool, Lord, I fly,
An Orphan child.

Though midst thy glory's dazzling blaze,
Bright seraphs chaunt their hymns of praise,
Yet I a grateful song would raise;
Then O, attend my artless lays,
An Orphan child!

Worlds upon worlds, sustained by thee,
Revolve in perfect harmony,
Thou dost uphold on earth and sea,
Then O, support and shelter me,
An Orphan child!

Mid long temptations, fierce and keen,
Let guardian angels intervene;
Mid thousand ills that lurk unseen,
With thine o'ershadowing pinions screen
An Orphan child.

For ah! their shade can well defend;
Can shield when angry storms impend;
On thee for safety I depend;
Then deign in pity to befriend
An Orphan child.

Whatever evils may betide,
O, be thine arm my stay, my guide,

And lest from Wisdom's path I slide,
Guard and surround on ev'ry side
An Orphan child.

When on the bed of death I lie,
And heave the last, the parting sigh,
When mourning friends stand weeping by,
Receive to fairer worlds on high,
An Orphan child.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE BALM FOR EVERY WOUND.

When the heart, torn by anguish, awhile seeks to rest
From its wearying watch on the pillow of care;
When by slumber we hope to expel from the breast,
The keen, searching pangs of remorse and despair;—

What Power can hush the tumultuous swell,
Bid the heart cease to flutter, the pale eye to weep?
O! how can the conscience-stung mortal dispel
The visions of horror that sport in his sleep?

“Tis Reason,” says one, “whose unlimited pow'r
“Can disperse the dark clouds that roll over the mind,
“Afford consolation in pain's keenest hour,
“And give the torn heart's sullen cares to the wind.”

But can Reason unburthen the conscience, when Time
Inflicts a fresh pang at each stroke of his wing?—
If Reason has failed in preventing a crime,
It surely must fail in preventing its sting.

“It is Time,” says a second, “whose touch can “efface
“By gradations unnotic'd, the woes of the heart,
“Bid the smiles of contentment illumine the face,
“And the last, lingering vestige of sadness depart.”

But can Time ever cause the sweet streamlet of peace
Again through the breast in its fulness to flow?
Will Memory's intrusive soliloquies cease
At his mandate to torture the aching heart?—No!

'Tis said that in Pleasure repose you will find,
From her cup the oblivion of woe you must seek;
That her nectar alone is the balm of the mind,
Its deep flush the hue that should vermeil the cheek.

Yes! awhile it may banish the phantoms of fear,
But reflection will break through the slightwoven spell;
It will give horror's pangs to her votaries here,
Hereafter will add to the torments of hell.

But others assert that Religion alone
Is the angel to comfort when sorrows annoy,
And when the illusions of Pleasure are flown,
Change her depth of despair to the fulness of joy.

Yes, daughter of Heaven! the sinner's last stay,
As his fainting soul bows to the chastening rod!
When faith and repentance have opened his way,
Thou restor'st the lost sheep to the fold of his God!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

If we should weep when Death destroys
The tender parents' dearest joys,
As in each virtue's early bloom,
He leads their children to the tomb,
Then may the parents' fondest tear
Be shed o'er her who slumbers here.

Yet sorrowing not as those who see
No joy in dim futurity,
They trust, as many an earthly love
Matures in happier worlds above,
The bud they fondly cherished here,
Will blossom in a brighter sphere.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INSCRIPTION IN AN ARBOUR.

How sweet beneath this greenwood bower,
To watch the sun's departing beam,
That lightly tints each closing flower,
And dances on the rippling stream.

Or from the mountain-steeps on high,
The morning's purple eye to view;
As swell the woodlark's notes of joy
From twilight vallies, wet with dew.

Here boldly o'er the wildwood scene,
Is flung the dark, majestic pine,
And many a tangled evergreen,
Round the rude beech has learned to twine.

Whilst on the tall cliff's beetling head,
The mountain-ash delights to grow,
And frequent strews its berries red
O'er Calder's warbling wave below.

Torn by the ruthless hand of Care,
Here may the heart its griefs resign,
And from Life's sickening scenes repair,
To seek Content! thy ivied shrine.

For, lost in sweet seclusion, here
Calm-eyed Contentment loves to dwell,
And hallowed Meditation near
Builds in the cliff her hermit cell.

Then, Stranger! whom the flattering smile
Of Pleasure has allured to Pain,
Here commune with thyself awhile,
Then seek the busy world again.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN,

FOR A DAY OF PUBLIC HUMILIATION.

Dread Sovereign! at thy feet we bow,
While swift thy bolts of vengeance fly;
We fall before thy dreadful brow,
Before the light'ning of thine eye.

For who can stand, when thou dost rise
In ire to shake a guilty land?
Fierce pestilence before thee flies,
And ruin waits thy stern command!

While nations round us feel the weight
Of thine uplifted, vengeful rod,
Prostrate before thy throne we wait,
And own thee righteous, dreadful God!

Yet in thy wrath remember Love,
On us the eye of Pity turn,
Our tears of penitence approve,
And let thine anger cease to burn.

In Mercy bid the furious fray
Of long-contending nations cease,
Thy gentle sceptre, Jesus, sway,
And reign for ever, Prince of Peace!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

Let thy blue waters, lovely stream,
Round Lutha's silent valley bend,
Where sleeps at noon the bright sun-beam,
And green woods from their hills impend.

There o'er the solitary vale,
The thistle finds its stony tower,
And lightly sighs the fitful gale,
O'er Autumn's pale and joyless flower.

“Why wak'st thou me?” it seems to say;
“Bending beneath the drops of heaven,
“Soon will my green leaves fade away,
“Soon on the whirling blast be driven.

“To-morrow shall the wanderer come,
“He that beheld me rising fair,
“Wide will his seeking footsteps roam,
“But I no longer blossom there.”

So shall they search for me in vain,
When hushed is that melodious voice,
Which stole across the listening plain,
And bade the echoing hills rejoice.

At morn, his forest shades among,
The hunter from the chase shall linger;—
But Ossian's lyre is all unstrung,
Nor longer owns his minstrel finger.

But soft! methinks I hear him speak—
“Where does the son of Fingal rest?”
A starting tear is on his cheek,
A sigh is struggling in his breast.

I hear my Father's spirit call!
He seems to chide my lingering stay;
The blast unfolds his airy hall;—
“Come, aged Ossian, come away.”

My course is run—my spirit fails—
Thy soothing harp Malvina bring,
And guide my steps to Lutha's vales,
Where the blue wave is murmuring!

Lay me beneath the beechen tree,
The spot where purple heath-flowers bloom,
That there the vagrant mountain-bee
May murmur round my silent tomb.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE I.

TO MECÆNAS.

Noble Mecænas! thee I claim,
Patron and guardian of my lays;
To thy revered, thy honoured name,
The poet first his homage pays.

There are who in the Olympic race,
Delight their chariot wheels to roll,
Whose brows the well-earned wreaths embrace,
Who pass with nicest skill the goal.

One seeks the honours of the state,
Ambitious of the civic train;
Another asks not to be great,
Content to store his barns with grain.

A third delights the live-long day
To till his patrimonial fields,
And pass the rosy hours away,
Amid the charms that nature yields.

Thrice happy in his rural seat,
No lure of wealth can e'er avail,
To tempt him from his loved retreat,
Across the hoary deep to sail.

The merchant when the tempests roar,
And angry winds embroil the main,
Sighs for some calm, some quiet shore,
And asks his native shades again.

But to his native shades retired,
When hushed the fury of the wind,
By dread of penury inspired,
Refits the bark he left behind.

Some love to quaff the sparkling bowl,
With draughts of costly Massic crown'd,
Listless amid the shades to roll,
Where sacred waters murmur round.

The warrior hears well-pleased afar,
The martial clang, the clattering spears,
The trump's shrill summons to the war,
The war that wakes maternal fears.

His dangerous care the hunter plies,
Nor heeds his tender wife's alarms,
Though cold and cheerless are the skies,
And home presents a thousand charms.

The poet's toil and wreath be mine,
And whilst my numbers tuneful flow,
Let ivy round my temples twine,
Nor Gods on high such bliss shall know.

Far from the common crowd I'll rove,
And seek the cool, the classic shade;
There wander pensive through the grove,
Or dance with wood-nymphs in the glade.

If Euterpe her pipe will lend,
No softer, sweeter I require;
While Polyhymnia's fingers blend,
The sweet tones of the Lesbian lyre.

And if my friend will place my name
Amidst the sacred sons of song,
I'll rise into immortal fame,
And walk the lofty stars among.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE BARD OF YARROW;

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM HAMILTON, Author of the beautiful Song, after the ancient Scotish manner, entitled “THE BRAES OF YARROW.”

Weep ye, weep ye, my fair Scotish maids,
Weep ye, weep ye with dule and sorrow,
Weep ye, weep ye my fair Scotish maids,
Fast flow your tears by the Braes of Yarrow.

Why should they weep, the fair Scotish maids,
Why should they weep with dule and sorrow?
Hushed, ah hushed are the sweetly-plaintive notes,
Hushed are the notes of the Bard of Yarrow.

Ah why does his reed, his reed no more
Echo the lay that softens sorrow,
And bids flow the tear—ah why, ah why
Hushed are the notes of the Bard of Yarrow?

Yes they shall flow, the tears shall flow,
Flow o'er the lay that softens sorrow,
For cold is his hand, and low lies the Bard,
Where murmurs the rippling wave of Yarrow.

Sweet, ah sweet are the earliest flowers
That Spring in her wild forest-glen discloses,
The orchis that blooms with the green-mantled lily,
And gay daffodils with the pale primroses.

As sweet was his song, but the loveliest flower,
Blossoms to day, and dies to morrow:
Not so his lay, it shall live for ever,
The lay that has told of the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet o'er his tomb let the wild rose blossom,
His green sod be spangled with daisies fair,
But weed ye, weed ye the noxious nettle,
And let not the nightshade flourish there.

And gather, gather, ye maidens gather
Around his grave with dule and sorrow,
Oft let the loveliest forms of beauty,
Bend o'er his tomb by the Braes of Yarrow.

There weep ye, weep ye my fair Scotish maids,
Weep ye, weep ye with dule and sorrow,
Weep ye, weep ye, my fair Scotish maids,
Fast flow your tears for the Bard of Yarrow.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES, ADDRESSED TO ---.

When recreant Memory brings to sight
Scenes of past pleasure and delight,
What pensive thoughts the bosom fill!
How loves the eye the prospect still!
For though the lingering scene appears
Half faded in the shade of years,
A brighter, lovelier tint is given,
Like radiant dyes at summer even.

Thus oft the power of Memory roves
Through ---'s solitary groves;
Sees from her mountain's airy brow,
The calm and silent vale below,

Or strays where hermit Calder glides,
The sunbeam trembling on its tides,
And seeks along the winding shore,
For pleasures which she felt before.

Though sweet are these in Fancy's dream,
Remembrance seeks a dearer theme,
And wings away her roving flight,
To eastern Kirklees' shady height,
Where scarce the sun is seen to shine
Through dark, romantic groves of pine,
And grassy tufts all lonely wave
Their blossoms o'er the robber's grave.

There as our feet together stray'd
Through flowery paths with moss inlaid,
And breaking through the silence still,
The wind came whispering up the hill,
Methought that dark and silent grove
Might form the hallowed bower of Love,

And Solitude might well repair,
To build her twilight altar there.

Now scenes far different meet the view,
Each object wears a sullen hue;
While wintery storms in dun array
Roll o'er the joyless face of day;
Yet Memory shall retain her power
To charm the sad, the pensive hour,
And view with fancy-lightened eye,
A lovelier scene, a brighter sky.

And as my youthful footsteps stray
In opening life's uncertain day,
Should clouds of sorrow intervene,
To blast its transient summer scene,
Her power shall chace away the gloom,
Teach the lone wilderness to bloom,
And, from all griefs my breast to free,
Shall fix my wandering thoughts on thee.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

CONTEMPLATIVE STANZAS.

Of late I marked the raging storm
Fair Nature's lovely face deform,
With wild and angry pinions sweep
The surface of the mighty deep,
And drive her tides, all calm before,
In lofty billows to the shore.

I marked the shades of night invest
The ruffled mildness of the west,
And when her curtains closed around
The tempest's wrath, and billow's sound,
Pleasure had fled, and pensiveness
Awoke the sigh of deep distress.

But soon upon the darkened tide,
The storm in gentle murmurs died;
With steps of mild serenity,
The moon beamed o'er the clear blue sky,
And from the scattered clouds afar,
All bright arose the twilight star.

Our little cup of bliss below,
Is bittered oft by care and woe;
The warring passions, wild and strong,
Urge man's contending bark along,
Till, tost beyond the power to save,
It founders on the stormy wave.

But should the storms of trouble rise
To steep in grief my aching eyes,
Should tribulation and unrest,
With anguish load my fevered breast,
O, may not thus the wave of woes,
O'er my conflicting spirit close!

But may my patience firm abide
The burst of Sorrow's angry tide,
Till grief has bowed the aspiring mind,
And every passion is refin'd;
Then, at the close of sorrow's day,
May Mercy chase the storm away;

And bright, amid serener skies,
The morning-star of Jesse rise;
Direct my view to scenes above,
In patient hope, and heavenly love;
From death the erring spirit save,
And guide to bliss beyond the grave.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

GOD UNSEARCHABLE.

------ “Canst thou by searching find out God?
“Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfection?“
Job c. xi. v. 7.

Shall mortal man, a child of earth,
Who yesterday received his birth
From God's all-bounteous hand;
Shall he, whilst sojourning below,
Presume the Almighty's plans to know,
His ways to understand?

He rides upon the stormy deep,
His watchful eyes that never sleep,
Wide o'er creation roll;
And from his bright empyreal throne,
View with one glance the torrid zone,
And ice-surrounded pole.

His paths the trackless waters are,
The winged whirlwinds are his car,
Its wheels the hurricane;
His fiery coursers bounding fly,
Borne rapid through the ethereal sky,
Or o'er the foaming main.

Earth as he passes, shakes with fear,
The infernal spirits when they hear,
To deeper caverns fly:
Fierce blazing light'nings mark his way,
Behind him pealing thunders play
Their dread artillery.

His wisdom, infinite and vast,
Shall through eternal ages last,
Unchangeably the same:
Whilst in the dreary shades of hell,
His justice so inflexible,
Proclaims his awful name.

Before the earth or worlds were made,
His vast eternal plans were laid,
In wisdom and in love;
And what the Almighty then design'd,
Is finished in the eternal mind;—
His purpose cannot move.

Ah then, suppress each rising sigh,
Nor dare to ask the Almighty why,
Or what his hands perform!
Submit to his all-wise decrees,
Whose power can calm the raging seas,
Or raise them to a storm!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

If youthful grace, if filial duty e'er
Could from untimely death its victim save,
No weeping parent yet had lingered here,
With bursting tears to dew this lowly grave.

But short and fleeting is Life's dark sojourn,—
Hope like an angel, through the tears of Time
Points to that Heaven where Grief shall cease to mourn,
And Virtue blossoms in unfading prime.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO CONGAL.

Congal, thou light between thy locks!
Ascend to Fingal's waving oaks,
To Selma's darkly-frowning rocks,
The rocks of the Invincible!

Look on the bosom of the night,
'Tis marked with crimson streaks of light,
A thousand spirits meet the sight,
Skirted in dreadful panoply.

Congal, behold the blasted heath!
Those fire-streaks mark the track of death;
Then follow in their glorious path,
The footsteps of thine ancestry.

The moon on ocean's billowy breast,
When by the storms of heaven oppress'd,
Flies to the chambers of the West,
There hides her head ingloriously.

But drive not thou thy rolling car,
From the black tempest of the war,
Till, hurled in triumph, wide and far,
Have blazed the bolts of victory!

Then rise, thou light between thy locks!
Ascend to Fingal's waving oaks,
To Selma's darkly-frowning rocks,
The rocks of the Invincible!

It is not easy in this passage to ascertain the author's meaning; he may possibly allude to the light, observable between the two shadows, cast by the parted tresses on the forehead.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IV.

TO SEXTIUS.

See hoary winter from our hills retire,
And whispering zephyrs fan the vernal plain,
The plowman leaves his hearth and blazing fire,
The cheerful seaman hies him to the main;
Forth from their fostering stalls the cattle come,
Pleased o'er the dewy mead again to roam.

Now, whilst the moon illumes the placid scene,
Fair Venus bids her lovely train advance;
Gladly the Nymphs and Graces own their queen,
And lightly tripping, join the measured dance;
Whilst ardent Vulcan in the realms beneath,
Forges for angry Jove the bolts of death.

Now be your youthful brow with myrtle crown'd,
Or fragrant flowers relenting fields bestow,
To Faunus be the chosen victim bound,
Deep in yon grove where cooling breezes blow;
At every door too soon pale death appears,
Nor dreads the monarch's frown, nor heeds the rustic's tears.

Seize then the hour, O Sextius, as it flies,
Hope's lingering visions we indulge in vain;
For soon, alas! the fabled ghosts will rise,
And you descend to Pluto's drear domain;
There at the social board no more to move
The youth to friendship, or the maids to love.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

FAREWELL TO THE MAID OF MALLWYDD.

Maid of the mountains! fare thee well,—
I love thy sweet simplicity,
And long thy artless charms shall dwell,
In Memory's retrospective eye.

Thou ne'er hast seen the city's crowd,
Whom fashion trains to revel glee;
The polished manners of the proud,
Are all unknown, sweet girl, to thee.

But thou hast charms surpassing these,
Fairest where all around is fair;
Thy voice the softness of the breeze,
Thy form the lightness of the air.

Born in this wild, romantic glen,
Thy cradle was the mountain-side;
And nature soothed thy sorrows, when
She bade her streams in murmurs glide.

Sweet floweret of the wooded dell!
O! never from these mountains go;
Still in thy native vallies dwell,
Nor seek yon distant world of woe.

For in that busy world afar,
Gay folly holds her airy reign,
Wild passions wage eternal war,
And pleasure only leads to pain.

But here false pleasure's gilded lure,
Cheats not the guileless breast of youth;
But modesty and virtue pure,
Beam sweetly from the eye of truth.

I love to mark yon purple peak,
Those precipices, rude and tall;
I love to hear the wild-bird's shriek,
And listen to the waterfall.

And fain with thee these scenes would roam,
Climb the tall mountain's rugged breast,
Would call their solitudes my home,
And in their awful stillness rest.

From city-crowds 'twere sweet to flee
To lofty rock and copse-wood dell,
But no! it may not, must not be,—
Maid of the mountains! fare thee well.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE HIGHLANDER.

STRANGER.

O, who is he so young and stern,
That strays amid the mountain-fern,
With step majestic, wild, and free,
O, tell me, Minstrel, who is he?

MINSTREL.

Yes! free his step as is his soul,
And stern his youthful eyeballs roll;
He wanders here like one exil'd,
For, Stranger, he is Moray's child.

Hast thou not heard how Moray's hand
Grasped highland blade 'gainst Cumberland,
And how in honour's firmest field,
He dauntless bore the highland shield?

That day of horror need I tell,
There ill-starred Albyn fought and fell;
Her star that rose in glory bright,
Her star of glory set in night.

Hence does that child with eager tread,
Seek the tall mountain's ferny head,
And looking round with eye of fire,
Demands from southern plains his sire.

For oft his mother's eye of pride
Swells with the tear she strives to hide;
Then, when her cheek begins to burn,
She bids him seek his sire's return.

In vain,—the curling mist afar
Mocks his young eye, then melts in air;
In every cloud a form he sees,
And hears a voice in every breeze.

And oft my aged steps he leads,
He bids me sing his father's deeds,
Then asks me, why the martial strain,
Breathes nought but sorrow, care, and pain.

Last night, when all was dark around,
I raised my wild harp's swelling sound;
The northern blast blew loud and shrill,
The moon sunk red behind the hill.

Through the thick darkness of the storm,
I saw a dim-enlightened form;
His tartans waving through the gloom,
And red the feathers of his plume.

The chequered plaid the warrior wore,
Seemed newly dyed with rushing gore;
His bleeding bosom showed the wound
That stretched him lifeless on the ground.

Majestic was his stately brow,
Though marked with pensive care and woe;
And full upon his starting child,
He fixed his dark eye, gleaming wild.

Thrice strove the mountain chief to speak,
Thrice lowered in gloom his haughty cheek;
At length with quivering lip and pale,
He breathed these accents on the gale.

“Young chieftain of thy father's clan,
“Thy youthful soul with fury man;
“Revenge upon the foeman proud!
“Thy sire lies mantled in his shroud!

“And all his clan on southern plains,
“Or fall, or wear the victor's chains;
“In dust the highland plume is laid,
“And shivered is the highland blade.

“By all the wounds the fallen bear,
“By all the chains the living wear,
“By Albyn's wrongs, by Albyn's woes,
“Revenge upon her haughty foes!”

Away with stately step he pass'd,
And mingled with the roaring blast;—
The noble boy, in silent ire,
Heard the wild mandate of his sire;

And fierce his wrathful brow he bent,
For conscious thought of high descent,
Flashed on his youthful spirit proud,
Like light'ning on a stormy cloud.

And now in plaid and plume array'd,
He tries in air his highland blade,
And wanders on the mountains wild,
Remembering he is Moray's child.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF COLLINS.

Strike the harp to notes of woe,
Let the tears of genius flow,
Collins is no more!
Collins, who struck the sounding lyre,
With Pindar's force, with Pindar's fire,
Collins is no more!

He who sang each Passion's power,—
Lost, amazed, bewildered Fear,
Boisterous Anger's raging hour,
Wan and comfortless Despair;

Hope, in sweet, enlivening measure,
Whispering joy, delight, and pleasure,
In each delusive breath;
Fierce Revenge, the warrior lord,
Who ruthless wields his blood-stained sword
In crimsoned fields of death;
Sad Jealousy that nought enjoys,
Lonely, pensive Melancholy,
Cheerfulness, whose even joys
Ne'er degenerate to folly;
Joy, whose rapid course is run
Through airy regions of the brain,
Often courted, seldom won,
No sooner won than lost again.—

He, the bard who sang their power,
Is wafted from this lower sphere;
His lyre, that soothed each painful hour,
No more shall wake its music here.

He felt misfortune's keenest dart,
He trod the thorny paths of woe,
The sorrows of his bursting heart,
Oft caused the burning tear to flow.

But down the pallid cheek no more
The starting tear can bring relief;
The flattering dreams of hope are o'er,
Fled the boasted “joy of grief.”
Instead of grief and sober sadness,
The starting tear, the bursting sigh;
All the frenzied rage of madness,
Dances in the Poet's eye.
Now his hands the trembling wire
Sweep with all their wonted fire;
Rude the notes and wild the measure,
“Still they whisper promised pleasure,”

And midst the dark funereal gloom,
Talk of a brighter day to come.

But hush! the Minstrel's altered tone,
Proclaims a sad, a sudden change,—
His fairy prospects all are gone,
And horrid phantoms, wild and strange,
Flit before the maniac's sight;
Of all the pangs the damned can know,
Of tales of terror, tales of woe,
That rose in Superstition's night;—
Of these the maniac minstrel sings;
With hurried hand he sweeps the strings,
Then starts, and heaves the unconscious sigh,
And glares and frowns, he knows not why.

But lo! the clouds of mental night
A moment pierced by reason's light!
On high his ardent prayers ascend,
To God, his Father and his Friend,

That his imprisoned soul, set free
From fetters of mortality,
Upborne on wings of heavenly love,
May soar to brighter realms above.

Watch the corroding pangs of death,
Each deep, each agonizing sigh,
Which hastening his expiring breath,
Wafts the pure spirit to the sky!
There a golden harp awaits
The hallowed minstrel's skilful hand;
Angels ope the heavenly gates,
To join him with their seraph band!

Thus, Genius! though the world around
On thy lorn sons has ever frown'd,
And from their sweetest, noblest lay,
Turn'd with a deafened ear away,—
Poor, wretched, and dispirited,
Outstretched upon the dying bed,

Has seen them sinking to the grave,
Nor stretched a single arm to save;
Yet, let them know,—the scornful great,
Minions with Fortune's smiles elate!
They cannot, if they would, destroy
The Poet's “sole remaining joy.”
For sinking in his last repose,
Whilst yet the fire of Fancy glows,
A moment will his languid eye
Beam with the light of minstrelsy.
And as the scenes which Fancy drew,
In sweet succession rise to view,
The thought that his neglected lay
Shall live till Time's expiring day,
Seems to recal his parting breath,
From the quick-gathering shades of death,
And crimsons with a deeper blush,
His withered cheek's last hectic flush.

Then silent, though that tuneful tongue
Breathes not the soul of magic song,

Think not that soul of heaven-born flame
Can perish from recording Fame.
No! whilst you share the common lot,
To die, be buried, and forgot,
Revered his memory shall live,
And from a thousand tongues receive
The high reward of minstrelsy,
A laurelled Immortality!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

MALVINA.

When with the deep-empurpled sky,
Some sullen cloud its darkness blends,
And the pale eve, with tearful eye,
Sad on the western wave descends;

If then the Sun his brightest ray
Should from his dun pavilion throw,
How sweetly does his lustre play
On all the smiling scene below!

In solitary beauty bright,
Is seen the giant mountain's crest,
And many a dancing wave of light
Floats on the blue lake's swelling breast.

Glitters with dew each folded flower,
The wild-bird wakes its melody,
And forest copse, and greenwood bower
Softened in yellow radiance lie.

And thus, (her graces who can speak,)
With steps of mildest majesty,
With beauty blooming on her cheek,
And pleasure lightening in her eye;

When her fair form Malvina shows,
The wreathed smile and winning air;
Gone is the cloud of human woes,
Vanished the threatening storm of care.

And other scenes are opening wide,
Lovely as childhood's yesterday;
Gentler the tones of feeling glide,
In softer swell the pulses play.

Delight is kindling as we gaze,
Hope strings her angel lyre to bless;
And all uniting, seem to raise
A more than earth-born happiness.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTION OF A STORMY NIGHT.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

The distant storm is raving still
Among the rocks of Inisfail;
The firs are fallen on the hill,
The hut is shattered in the vale.

But now the scattered clouds are fled,
Heaven's burning stars disclose their light;
And the pale meteor of the dead,
Flies sparkling thro' the gloom of night.

It rests on yonder shady rock,
It glimmers on the mountain-fern;
I dimly view the blasted oak,
I view the tall hill, dark and stern.

And who is he, beneath the tree,
All mantled in a dripping shroud?
The sullen tide flows by his side,
Half lost amid a misty cloud.

On high the lake's dark billows move,
And whitening, lash its rocky side;
A boat is brimful in the cove,
The oars upon the rocking tide.

And lonely by the craggy cave,
Behold'st thou not a virgin pale?
Her eye is on the rolling wave,
To meet her lover's promised sail.

Ere yet the lingering light declin'd,
She saw his vessel's dashing oar;—
Are these his groans upon the wind?
Is this his broken boat ashore?—

The stormy winds have ceased to blow,
But hark! I hear the rattling hail;
And drifted thick, the flaky snow
Whitens the hills of Inisfail.

By fits the struggling moon on high
Beams forth with cold and cheerless light;
But clouds again involve the sky,
Cold, dark, and dreary is the night!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV.

TO THE REPUBLIC.

O ship! shall hostile waves again
Impel thee backward to the main?
Wilt thou thy dangerous course pursue,
Nor bravely seize the port in view?
Bereft of oars, thy naked sides
Can ill resist the raging tides;
Thy mainyards groan upon the mast,
All shattered in the southern blast,
And scarcely can the assaulted keel
Check the rocked vessel's rapid reel;
Thy cords are broke, thy canvas torn,
No guardian Gods thy deck adorn,
To whom, in hours of anxious care,
The soul might breathe its votive prayer.

Though hewed from Pontus' lofty pine,
You proudly boast the illustrious line,
And trust an idle name can save
Your wreck from the devouring wave;
No painted stern, a gaudy toy,
Gives to the timid seaman joy.
O, scorn not the tempestuous wind!
But leave the treacherous deep behind!

O thou, of late my toil and care!
For thee I breathe the ardent prayer;
For thee, with patriotic zeal,
This faithful breast must ever feel;
May'st thou escape the dangerous seas,
Amongst the shining Cyclades!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES, TO A FRIEND IN SICKNESS.

The rose from Lelia's cheek is fled,
Faint is the lustre of her eye,
And dewy damps, by sickness spread,
Cold on her aching temples lie.

The early primrose on the hill,
All lovely blooms in vernal skies;
Till nipping gales its bosom chill,
Then low on earth its beauty lies.

Thus young, thus lovely to the eye,
Her mild, her modest graces blew;
Nursed by each sun-beam of the sky,
And watered with ethereal dew.

Till Winter shed his sleety shower
Upon the cold and rifling gale;
Then blighted left the fair one's bower,
And left the fair one, sickening, pale.

O, that I were thy brother dear,
To raise from pain thy drooping head!
I'd wipe away each starting tear,
And keep my vigils round thy bed.

Would bid those mild, those pensive eyes
Forget their cares, and cease to weep;
And call on angels from the skies,
To ease their weary orbs with sleep.

Then tenderly I'd pillow thee,
Thy head upon my troubled breast;
Unbroken should thy slumber be,
And sweet the visions of thy rest.

Thee no intrusive wind should harm,
My sheltering arms around thee cast,
I'd shield thee from the raging storm,
I'd shield thee from the bitter blast.

Till Winter's dark and dreary night,
With all his sullen train had fled;
And Spring, arrayed in virgin white,
Her mildest influence o'er thee shed.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

Lonely dweller of the mountain!
Sweet and pleasant is thy song;
With the murmurs of the fountain,
Float the liquid notes along.

Ossian's soul awakes to danger,
Ossian seeks the strife of spears,
Grasps his bossy shield, O stranger!
As in days of other years.

But the tide of battle slumbers,
Feeble is my aged hand;—
Wilt thou listen to my numbers,
Dweller of the secret land?

Joys of my youth's untroubled morning,
O'er my raptured bosom roll;
Deeds of other days returning,
Crowd upon my beating soul.

Thus appears the sun at even,
Gilding ocean's foaming stream;
When the parting clouds of heaven,
Fly before his setting beam.

Glistening in his rays, the mountain
Lifts its green head, wet with dew;
In the vale the lucid fountain
Rolls its waters, bright and blue.

On his staff, infirm and hoary,
Forth the aged hero strays;—
War has crowned his steps with glory,
Fame has twined his head with bays.

Round him play the fanning breezes,
Wafted from the mountain's peak;
Sun beams glittering in his tresses,
Stream upon his withered cheek.

Hear'st thou not the armour rattle,
Echoing from my hall afar?
'Tis the shining blade of battle,
'Tis the bossy shield of war.

Crimsoned is that blade with slaughter,
That shield the great Dunthalmo bore,
Chief of Teutha's winding water,
Chief of Teutha's woody shore.

But in death the hero slumbers,
By my purpled spear he fell;
Listen to my storied numbers,
Dweller of the secret cell!

By “a dweller of the mountain,” Ossian probably means one of the early Christian missionaries, or Culdees, as they were called by the Highlanders, from their retired manner of living.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MY LYRE.

And said I to my lyre adieu,
And did I strive the ties to sever
That bound me to a friend so true,
And bid its numbers sleep for ever?

Yes! in the gloomy hour of sadness,
When first the faithless --- frowned,
And drove me to the verge of madness,
I rudely hushed its soothing sound.

And, deeply racked with care and pain,
With bursting heart and aching eye,
I vowed my hand should ne'er again
Awake its dulcet melody.

Though once were poured in beauty's ear,
The lays which ---'s lips approving,
Eased my torn bosom of its fear,
And heightened all the joys of loving.—

Doomed in youth's early morn to know
That fled are those gay dreams of pleasure,
To soothe the pangs of sleepless woe,
The lyre is now my only treasure.

Yes, soother of the lonely hour!
Thy chords can lull my heart to rest,
When memory paints the halcyon bower
Where, lapt in love, my life was blest.

Then shall I bid thy notes adieu,
And hush thy warbling strings? No, never!
The tie that binds my soul to you,
The hand of death alone shall sever.

Then pendent from the drooping willow,
The only mourner o'er my tomb,
Soft-murmuring o'er my earthy pillow,
Thy notes shall weep my early doom.

And haply in the solemn sound
That breathes thy master's elegy,
His spirit, fondly hovering round,
Shall join the solemn minstrelsy.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPISTLE TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

The rose, the deeply-crimsoned rose,
The sweetest, loveliest flower that blows,
Ne'er opened to the summer morn
Its leaves, uncircled by the thorn.
Who but would wish in that fond hour,
When plucks his hand the blooming flower,
To deck some lovelier blooming fair,
The thorn were not engrafted there!
But vain the wish,—where'er it blows,
The thorn must flourish with the rose.

And leave the garden's narrow bound,
To view the world's wide scenery round;
Extend the deep-enquiring ken
To every varying class of men;
Whatever race you turn to view,
Still will you find the maxim true.
In every face, however fair,
The tear at times has glistened there;
And on that face, some happier day,
Again shall smiles of rapture play;
And thus through life, where'er it blows,
The thorn must flourish with the rose.

For even I, whose feet have trod
So short a time life's chequered road,
Whose early years as yet have seen
So little of its busiest scene,—
E'en I could bring some griefs to view,
Could paint the flower so sweet that blew,

When opening to the summer morn,
And I could tell you of the thorn,
That rising in an envious hour,
Destroyed the beauty of the flower,
But that as these gay scenes depart,
Though sorrow rend my bursting heart,
Yet would it strive with stedfast mind,
To bow to Heaven's high will resigned;
Remembering that, where'er it blows,
The thorn must flourish with the rose.

And since beneath the arch of heaven,
To every soul that breathes is given
Like summer's sun and winter's rain,
Its share of pleasure, share of pain;
As fade the fairy scenes away
So bright that decked the rising day,
And leave no vestige to illume,
The darkness of the midnight gloom,—

O happiest they who best can find
Some light amusement for the mind!
Whether they cull from learned pages
The wisdom of the ancient sages,
Turn with enraptured feelings o'er,
The pleasing tomes of metric lore,
Or glowing with the bardic fire,
They gently touch the warbling wire,
If they but soothe one hour of pain
Whate'er the means, to them 'tis gain;
Hence I the sage advice pursue,
And turn from all my griefs to you.

Who but has read the border tale
Thy muse in Ettrick's breezy vale,
In wildly-pleasing numbers told,
Which erst the bard, infirm and old,
In changeful life's declining hours,
Awoke in Branksome's lordly towers?

Who but admires the lofty lay,
That paints the fierce, the dreadful day,
When to the charge the war-horse dashing,
Helm and hauberk rudely clashing,
And loud the din of spear and shield,
Fierce was the fight on Flodden field?
Yet who that marks thy lofty song,
Like rapid streams that foam along,
Who sees sweet Nature's wide domain,
Depictured in thy pleasing strain,
Her frowning rocks, her foaming floods,
Her barren heaths, her shaggy woods,
And all those scenes so rudely wild
That mark thee grandeur's darling child,
But deeply grieves full oft to see
Some groveling thoughts, that ill agree,
With strains of such sublimity.

And while they mark the unequal lay,
Now proudly high, now lowly gay,
They find, e'en where it sweetest blows,
The thorn must flourish with the rose.

Yet though we see the wilding flower,
Bloom sweet in Nature's forest bower,
Transplanted to a richer soil,
Its lovelier hue rewards his toil,
Who tends with gentle, fostering care,
Its blossoms in the gay parterre.
And e'en the wild-wood eglantine,
Thy chosen emblem, taught to twine
Round sylvan grots which art has made,
Blooms fairer than in copse-wood glade.
Then why should not the florist's art,
One simple hint to thee impart,
Whose power of rich description vies
With flowerets of a thousand dyes,

That in the hot-house shelter bloom,
Or give the garden's rich perfume?
Spare then no labour to refine
The groveling thought, the rugged line,
Nor let inglorious love of ease,
Permit those wild luxuriancies,
Which many a poet's hand might tame,
Yet none but thine could ever frame.
Heard not were then the bitter jeer,
On legends framed for childhood's ear,
Or censure upon uncouth words,
From Criticism's mole-eyed lords;
Whilst friends who hail thy rising fame,
Admit no trivial cause for blame.
And though, to check man's soaring pride,
Art's full perfection is denied,
In Life as bright a wreath were thine,
As ever bloomed at poet's shrine.

100

For though we find, where'er it blows,
The thorn must flourish with the rose,
If we perceive the hand of care
Has scattered on the ambient air,
A spoil of richer fragrancy,
If brighter colours meet the eye;
Like rose-bud that is fondly prest,
A lover's gift to maiden's breast,
So sweet the smell, the hue so fair,
We see no thorn engrafted there.

101

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE.

FROM OSSIAN.

As wrapt in gloom, the autumnal storms of heaven
Pour from two echoing hills, together driven;
As two dark streams their rushing waters pour,
Foam o'er their rocks, and thunder on the shore;
Loud, rough, and gloomy in the strife of death,
Mix the dark hosts on Lena's blasted heath.
Man charges man, with chieftains chieftains close,
Steel rings on steel, and blows succeed to blows;
Helmets and bossy shields are cleft on high,
And hissing javelins rush along the sky;

102

On polished yews the whizzing string resounds,
And the blood gushes from unnumber'd wounds.
The din of battle sounds along the sky,
As the last peal of heaven's artillery;
Loud as the roar when sudden storms arise,
Sweep the wild waves, and toss them to the skies.
As some tall rock a thousand waves assail,
So Lochlin's thousands pour on Inisfail;
As some tall rock withstands a thousand waves,
So Inisfail the force of Lochlin braves.
Death with his hundred voices sounds alarms,
And calls, and mingles with the clash of arms.
As from their fountains burst a hundred rills,
As the loud whirlwinds of a hundred hills,
As clouds on clouds the noon of day o'ercast,
Or ocean waves assault the desert waste,
So loud, so fierce the opposing hosts engage,
Such the war's tumult, such the battles rage,
The groan of death the vale of Lena fills,
Swells on the gale, and spreads o'er all the hills.—

103

'Twas like nocturnal thunder, pealing loud,
When full on Cona bursts the stormy cloud,
And, robed in mist, upon its skirts reclin'd,
A thousand spirits shriek upon the hollow wind.

104

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE TULIP AND THE ROSE.

ADDRESSED TO E---.

Sweet blooms the mossy rose,
In Spring's unruffled morning,
Through drops of starlight dew it glows,
The brow of day adorning.

But should we prize its bloom,
'Reft of its sweetest treasure?
No! 'tis the breath of its perfume,
That steeps each sense in pleasure.

The flaunting tulip why
Does Beauty not embosom?
Though rich and gaudy is its dye,
No sweets are in its blossom.

105

This may its hues awhile
From the bright sunbeam borrow,
But soon is past the fickle smile,
It withers ere the morrow.

The crimson flower of Spring,
Celestial sunbeams nourish,
And richer sweets are opening,
When it has ceased to flourish.

Not in the external mien,
The charm of life is planted;
It is the virtues mild within,
That hold the breast enchanted.

In thee, fair plant, we find
A bloom for ever vernal,—
The higher graces of the mind,
Unfading and eternal.

106

As on Life's varying sea,
Thy little bark is driven;
Untroubled may the waters be!
Unclouded be thy heaven!

107

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

PSALM VIII. PARAPHRASED.

When mid the shades of night I stray,
And heaven's resplendent arch survey,
And mark with rapture and surprise,
The varied glories of the skies;—
Ah! what is man, thou Great Supreme,
That thou shouldst stoop to visit him!

Glory around his path is shed,
Immortal honour crowns his head;
His maker's image born to bear,
An object of his special care,
With might and majesty array'd,
Scarce lower than the angels made.

108

Dominion vast to him is given,
The fowl that sweeps the vault of heaven;
The fish that o'er the billows leap,
Their pathway in the mighty deep;
The beasts that in green pastures rove,
And warbling songsters of the grove.

Whilst these, the creatures of thy hand,
Submit themselves to his command,
They through the earth's wide realms record
Thy power and skill, Creator Lord!
All that have breath, thy love proclaim,
And infants learn to lisp thy name!

109

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IMITATED.

O thou, that roll'st on high thy radiant fires,
Round as the rocky buckler of my sires!
From what pure fountain of ethereal day,
Springs thy full tide, thy everlasting ray?
Thou comest forth, in awful beauty bright,
Thy bashful stars withdraw their twinkling light,
And night's pale planet, by thy beams oppress'd,
Sinks in the twilight chambers of the west;
But thou thyself for ever mov'st alone,
Untrod thy footsteps, and thy path unknown;
For who shall track thee in thy shining sphere,
Wake the sweet day, and measure out the year?

110

Stretched on their hills, the mountain-oaks decay,
E'en the firm mountains wear with years away;
The restless deep now swells and now subsides,
As ebb her billows, and as flow her tides;
The moon herself, from heaven's blue circle fled,
In twilight shadows hides her lovely head;
But thy full orb, eternally the same,
Glows in its course, perpetual as its flame.
When, dark with tempests, lower the angry skies,
When rolls the thunder, when the light'ning flies,
Thou from thy clouds, in beauty's fairest form,
Lovely look'st forth, and laughest at the storm.
But vain to Ossian breaks thy light away,
He views no more the lustre of thy ray;
Whether on eastern clouds thy yellow hair
Flows steep'd in dew, and waved by summer air,
Or sinking on the billow's purple breast,
Thou tremblest at the portals of the west.
Yet thou perhaps art doomed but for awhile
Like me to flourish,—then to cease thy smile,

111

Sink in thy dun pavilion to repose,
Nor heed the morn's sweet music as it flows.
Then prize, Ethereal Power! thy golden prime,
For dark and joyless is the night of Time.
'Tis like the moonbeam's cold, unlovely light,
When pale it glimmers through the clouds of night,
Dim on autumnal hills the mists remain,
The northern blast is sweeping o'er the plain;
The traveller eyes the wan, reluctant ray,
He sees the approaching storm, and shrinks upon his way!

112

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO ---.

You tell me --- still is free,
That I perhaps may gain the prize,
And once again delighted see
Fond rapture beam from ---'s eyes.

But cease to paint the blissful scene,
No fairy dreams of hope pourtray;
For truth's clear light will intervene
To chase her airy tints away.

I loved her once,—I loved her so
That even now the merest thought
Of all that passed so long ago,
Has tears of fond remembrance brought

113

To eyes that once with fond delight
Gazed on her form so passing fair,
Whilst Love, in golden vision bright,
Saw all perfection centered there.

The hope that fluttered in my breast,
Fled from its ark like Noah's dove,
But, wearied in its search of rest,
Returned without the branch of Love!

I felt a pang no words can tell,
But passion's struggle soon was o'er;
No faltering marked my last farewell,—
I firmly said, “we meet no more.”

And still my heart, by many a care,
To the lorn sons of song allied,
Though small the minstrel-genius there,
Beats with a minstrel's honest pride.

114

It scorns to breathe the unmanly sigh,
Of ---'s coldness to complain;—
She who could once its suit deny,
Will never hear its suit again.

115

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE ON HUMAN LIFE.

Life, what uncertainties are thine!
Thy path, how varied is its scene!
Now bright the beams of pleasure shine,
And all is tranquil and serene;
And now the storm
Begins to rise
In awful form;—
Across the skies
Clouds roll on clouds, and light'nings flash between.

116

I have not travelled far indeed
Along thy wild and rugged way,
Yet have I often found the need
Of caution in the brightest day;
When o'er my head
The morning smil'd,
But dark and dread,
With howlings wild,
The night came on in gusts and elemental fray.

Then have I said in deep despair,
“No more I'll trust the sunshine hour,
“But when 'tis most serene and fair,
“Then I'll expect the storm to lower;
“But when the rain
“And winds annoy,
“I'll smile again,
“And wake to joy,
“For soon the storm will cease,—'tis but a passing shower.”

117

Soon the last beating shower will fall,
And soon the final tempest blow,
Heaven's latest thunder soon appal,
And the last vivid light'nings glow;
Sunshine and shower,
And night and day,
In that dread hour,
Shall pass away,
And pleasure's earth-born smile, and sublunary woe.

Though now the tempest's wrath I feel,
Though adverse winds my path molest,
I have a friend my wounds can heal,
And make e'en dark affliction blest.
With him I'll go
Through life's long way,
Mid scenes of woe,
To endless day,
To realms where former toils, shall only sweeten rest.

118

Serener skies shall there be mine,
And fairer scenes my eyes employ,
Around me purer light shall shine,
And every pulse shall beat with joy.
In heavenly dreams
Will pass my hours,
By living streams,
In fragrant bowers,
Where clouds ne'er rise to shade, nor tempests to destroy.

119

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE III.

TO DELIUS.

Remember to preserve your mind
Unmoved, unshaken, and resign'd,
In dark adversity;
Nor suffer insolence and pride,
Triumphant in your breast to ride
Amidst prosperity.

O Delius! know that we must die,
Whether we sadly sit and sigh,
And o'er our sorrows pine;
Or whether, every festive day
Stretched on the grass we pass away,
Blessed with Falernian wine:

120

Where the tall poplar and the pine
Delight their branches to entwine,
And form a grateful shade;
Whilst, toiling with resistless force,
The streamlet winds its devious course,
In murmurs through the glade.

Bring hither wines and sweet perfume,
And roses of too short a bloom,
With every fragrant flower;
Learn we, ere yet our glass is run,
Ere yet the fatal thread is spun,
To enjoy the fleeting hour.

For soon these scenes will fade away,
Long night succeed the cheerful day,
And death's terrific gloom!
Your villa then on Tiber's shores,
Your wide domains, your golden stores,
Shall heirs unknown consume.

121

No matter whether rich or poor,
Each must alike his fate endure,
The monarch and the slave;
On an unfathomed, dread abyss,
We launch to endless woe or bliss,
In realms beyond the grave.

122

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

Though, Lady, I have loved 'tis true,
Have fondly loved the Muse's smiles,
I oft resolved to bid adieu
For ever to her syren wiles.

Yet long the parting hour delay'd,
Would still those syren wiles prolong
“Tis but for once, I've often said,
“And Beauty's lips demand the song.

123

“And who can Beauty's wish refuse,
“Ne'er felt a spark of minstrel fire,
“He who denies when Woman sues,
“Let not his hand profane the lyre.”

Thus have I lingered, fondly loth
To bid the witching art adieu,
That charmed my unsuspecting youth,
And with my years yet stronger grew.

But when the crabbed page of Law,
Demanded every studious hour,
I thought to tread her fanes with awe,
And quit for aye the Muse's bower.

I all but vowed my hand no more
Should sweep the harp's rude strings along;
I all but said the charm was o'er,
That gained the half-reluctant song.

124

But these rude lines, alas, will prove
How weak is duty's firm resolve,
To quit the dear pursuit we love,
If Beauty's lips the fault absolve.

You asked me for some trifling lay,
And held your book,—what could I do,
But turn from my resolves away,
And leave my broken vows to you?

For though to casuist reasoning prone,
A Templar sure may argue right,
And plead that your seducing tone,
Must needs absolve the luckless wight,

Who let his roving fancy stray
From Croke and Salkeld's dull reports,
And dared more glad attendance pay
On H---'s, than Eldon's courts.

125

And if stern gownsmen should deny
The recreant student's written plea,
I'll bid them mark thy beaming eye,
And safely leave my cause to thee.

126

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE FROM OSSIAN.

String the harp to notes of grief!
Sound the generous Dargo's fall!
Heroes sigh o'er Lartho's chief,
Sorrow gathers in his hall.

As the dawning star of day,
Glowed the generous in his sight,
But the dark soul died away
Rapid as the blue mist's flight.

127

Who shone fairest on the heath?
Loveliest in the virgins' eyes?
Bravest in the field of death?
Who, but Dargo, great and wise!

His hand swept the trembling wire,
Bade the strains of rapture flow,
Woke the battle's lingering fire,
Hurled its vengeance on the foe!

How shall the chiefs his story tell,
Dargo's race of glory o'er,
Fallen is the chief in Clutha's dell,
Fallen by the tusked forest boar.

But thou, Mingala, art alone,
Dark night descends in sullen gloom,
Then seek thy bed—the mossy stone,
And seek thy rest—in Dargo's tomb.

128

Last night in Lartho's lofty halls,
The hunter's festal was begun;
But silence now o'erspreads its walls,
Mingala rests with Collath's son.

Dargo, the son of Collath, is celebrated in several poems by Ossian. He is said to have been killed by a boar at a hunting party. The above lamentation of Mingala is generally ascribed to Ossian, though doubts are entertained by some respecting its authenticity.

129

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MARY.

Yes, Mary, I have journeyed long,
In life's eventful morn,
The roseate bowers of Love among,
And felt its keenest thorn;
Yet would'st thou but the wish befriend,
With thee should all my journeyings end.

And I have strung the Harp of Love
To many a fair one's praise,
And I have heard her lips approve
The fond, but artless lays;
Yet wouldst thou bless its simple tone,
That harp were strung for thee alone.

130

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTIVE SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF CADER IDRIS, NORTH WALES.

From this dread mountain, round whose awful brow,
Crags, knowls, and lakes, in wild confusion hurl'd,
Seem like the giant ramparts of the world,
I gaze enraptured on the scene below.
Around are mountains, rugged and sublime,
Now wrapt in gloomy shade, and now so bright,
They seem like polished heaps of orient light,
The noblest workmanship of ancient time.

131

The lake is here,—the dark, unfathomed deep,
Parent of streams, and roaring waterfalls,
The precipice that human heart appals,
And hoary ocean with expanded sweep.
Preachers sublime! I feel your mighty theme,
And prostrate own with you the Great Supreme

132

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE HERMITAGE, AT THE FOX UNDER THE HILL, BURFORD-BRIDGE, NEAR DORKING, SURREY.

Stranger! whencesoe'er you come,
Welcome to this rustic dome!
Welcome to the hill,—the glade!
Welcome to the forest shade!

Worn and wasted by disease,
Pale and languid, ill at ease,
Say does health your search employ,
Health, the fostering nurse of joy?

133

Come and chase her on our hills,
Meet her by our forest-rills,
Woo her mid our shadowing trees,
Catch he on the balmy breeze.

Bury in this wooded glen,
All the cares of busy men,
Whilst the streams that round us roll,
Sweetly murmuring, soothe the soul.

Lo! the glorious orb of day
Cheers us with his parting ray,
Whilst above the woods afar,
Mildly shines the evening star.

Stranger! rest thee here awhile,
Till the morning sun shall smile,
Then explore the fairy scene,
Lovely as a waking dream.

134

For within this hermit cell,
Peace and silent pleasures dwell;
Peace, that knows no ruffled morrow,
Pleasures, unallied to sorrow.

135

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO ANNA.

Anna! the scenes of fond delight
That charm while youth's warm pulse is beating,
By fancy cherished, grow more bright,
As Time's maturer course is fleeting.

Each lovely scene, which then so well
The careful breast may know to treasure,
Lures back the tender thought to dwell
On former scenes of parted pleasure.

Thus, when I crop in vernal bower,
Some dew-bent rose, the air perfuming,
I think upon a lovelier flower,
In northern skies more sweetly blooming.

136

But should some mournful scene anew
Involve the bosom in dejection,
Its former sorrows rise to view,
And mournful is the retrospection.

When Autumn lingers in the vale,
Her fading weeds with tears bedewing,
And seems in parting to bewail
Approaching Winter's course of ruin;

O, need I, Anna, pause the while,
Those hours of faded bliss recalling,
When fancy checked her fairy smile,
And sorrow's pensive dews were falling.

Peace to the thought! I dare not dwell
On all that caused my steps to falter,
As breathing forth a long farewell,
I left the conscious hills of Calder.

137

To them, as slowly I withdrew,
Some feeling taught my eye to wander,
And whispered at the melting view,
“Fair is the flower that blossoms yonder!”

Thrice has the Spring her annual flower
Awakened from its wintry pillow;
And Autumn, since that mournful hour,
Has thrice put on her robes of yellow.

Adieu the light pursuits of youth!
Advancing manhood claims severer;
These wear the sober dress of truth,
But ah! youth's gay attire is dearer.

If then for ever I resign
The theme I still should love to cherish,
Yet not at cold oblivion's shrine,
Shall all that charmed my bosom perish.

138

On thee the musing thought shall rest,
Thy form shall glowing fancy treasure;
In grief 'twill soothe my ruffled breast,
In joy augment the tide of pleasure.

The flowers on which young Hope reposes,
Are oft by thorns of woe surrounded;
O, mayst thou pluck her sweetest roses,
Nor be by Disappointment wounded!

And when thy silent steps have trod
Life's checquered vale, unknowing sorrow,
May thy pure spirit meet its God,
And triumph in a happier morrow!

139

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

Lora! the murmur of thy streams
Recals soft memory's pensive dreams;
The sound, Garmallar! of thy trees,
Low-waving in the mountain-breeze,
As lovely on my ear they fall,
The deeds of other days recal.

Malvina! turn thy radiant eye,
Behold'st thou not a mountain high,
Depending from whose lofty head,
Three aged pines their branches spread?
Dark heath o'ershades its silent brow,
But verdant is the vale below.

140

There lightly charged with silver dew,
The mountain-floweret meets the view,
Waving, with heavy head declined,
Its snowy blossoms in the wind,
Whilst on the traveller's lonely way,
The thistle strews its tresses grey.

Two stones, half sunk in earth below,
Their dark and mossy summits show;
With flying feet the mountain deer,
Avoids the lonely spot in fear,
For there in clouds, half seen, half lost,
He views some hero's shrouded ghost.

Malvina! bring me Ossian's lyre,
I feel my aged soul on fire.
Past deeds of heroes and of kings
Shall tremble from its sounding strings,
Till, listening to the awful sound,
Aërial forms shall gather round!

141

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ---.

The evening air blows soft and still,
The sun has sunk behind the hill,
And twilight round his fading ray,
Enfolds her dewy mantle grey;
At distance down the piny vales,
The lonely heron slowly sails,
Oft stooping with his breast to break
The purpled surface of the lake,
Whilst pensive by its side I rove,
To bid adieu to scenes I love.

Yes! sweet are ---'s airy glades,
Her heathy hills, and piny shades;

142

What though her summer-breezes sweep
O'er sandy plains and vallies deep,
Those gales are redolent of bloom,
From beds of thyme, and banks of broom;
Though barren all her hills appear,
Their heathy heads to me are dear,
And though their tracks are wild and rude,
I love their silent solitude.

For there, when daylight's fading eye
Was closed in summer's western sky,
Oft have I marked the twilight star,
Rise slowly o'er the hills afar;
Oft sought to start with infant tread,
The wild deer from his ferny bed;
While haply on his lonely way,
The startled traveller might stay,
And deem those murmuring sounds behind,
Unearthly voices on the wind.

143

Then Hope was young, and Fancy true
To every scene her pencil drew,
For all that prompted hope or fear
Was Summer's smile, and Winter's tear;
And all within my careless breast,
Was innocence, and peace, and rest;
Or if the sigh of sorrow rose,
'Twas hushed by pity to repose;
If care assailed my infant heart,
'Twas bade by mercy to depart.

A few short years have passed away,
Young Fancy's glittering tints decay,
Her airy prospects all are fled,
And scenes more sober rise instead.
Yet, as I tread the verdant lea,
That charmed my soul in infancy,
The feelings which I cherished then,
Come wandering o'er my soul again,

144

And bid the swelling tears o'erflow,
In silent luxury of woe.

O! is there aught more sadly dear,
Than Meditation's heavenly tear,
When, lingering o'er the fond review
Of joys which youthful fancy drew,
The throbbing bosom seeks relief,
And finds a pleasure in its grief!
That tear can soothe the soul's distress,
Can make misfortune's sorrow less,
And all the tender joys impart,
That bind thee, ---, to my heart!

Yet must I leave with aching eyes,
Ere bright the morrow's sun arise,
This lake with deepening shadows dyed,
And these dark pine-groves, waving wide,

145

In loveless solitudes to stray,
With none to share my lonely way,
Whose hearts their feelings will resign,
Leave their own joys to cherish mine,
Or o'er my woes, in grief sincere,
Will shed the sympathetic tear.

Yet there shall fond remembrance raise
The enchanting scenes of happier days;
Her power each image shall restore,
And make it lovelier than before.
Again in fancy shall I hear
Affection's whispered accents dear,
With all that Friendship's hallowed power
Breathes forth upon my parting hour;—
Such thoughts can soothe my bosom's care,
And almost plant contentment there.

146

But lo! the shadowy tints of night
Have hid the swimming scene from sight,
And from afar the abbey-bell
Tolls mournfully a parting knell.
Ye hills, that rear your summits high!
Ye woods, that wave in cloudless sky!
Ye scenes, that mock my straining view!
Haunts of my childhood! all adieu.
These bursting tears my sorrow tell,
O, once again a last farewell!

147

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MARY.

Yes! yes! there is that active mind,
That soars each passing ill above,
That cannot, will not be confin'd
By pangs of disappointed love.

That when by some enchanting fair
Allured from learning's paths astray,
Will gather from each slighted prayer,
Fresh vigour on its destined way.

When, yielding to its pristine bent,
Whole years of anxious toil must prove,
Whilst climbing slow Fame's steep ascent,
“Ambition is a cure for love.”

148

There is that heart, whose feelings wild,
To souls of vulgar stamp unknown,
Burst from the Muse's wayward child,
In genuine passion's loftiest tone.

If when to beauty he has bow'd,
His gentle suit should be denied,
Instant he quits the flattering crowd,
In all a minstrel's native pride.

The sigh that marks his poignant woe,
Meets his unconscious ear alone;
The tear he would forbid to flow,
Falls on his cheek, unseen, unknown.

His stifled sorrows all but break
The chord of Feeling's magic tones,—
But Genius never will forsake
The lowliest of her tuneful sons.

149

She fires him with a nobler flame
Than ever lit at Beauty's eye,
She points him to a deathless name,
A laurelled Immortality!

To this one point, his ardent soul
Bends all its high, but plastic powers,
And spurns with mild, yet firm controul,
The memory of departed hours.

But mighty efforts such as these
His woe-worn frame but ill can bear;
Follows on every step disease
That leads to madness and despair.

He smiles at many an anxious friend
Who warns him of an early tomb;
Careless how soon existence end,
If o'er his grave the laurel bloom.

150

Yet ere beneath the sculptured stone
His wounded spirit sinks to rest,
His eye perchance may glance upon
The once-loved empress of his breast.

A narrower soul had turned aside
To show its keen, but latent smart;—
As memory pictures hope denied,
What feeling swells the minstrel's heart?

A feeling yet without a name,
Each sordid thought of self above,
Warmer than Friendship's wavering flame,
Yet softer than the fires of Love!

No change of purpose has the power
To bid him hate whom once he loved;
Though Reason may condemn the hour
That once the pulse of rapture mov'd.

151

And I, by minstrel arts beguil'd,
Have felt these passions, wild and strong,
Though seldom have the Muses smiled
Propitious on my artless song.

And, Mary, sure I need not say
That I have loved, and loved in vain;
Though Science now has strewn my way
With joys that lull the sense of pain.

Years have rolled by since last we met,
No longer Love enthrals my mind
Yet charms which I can ne'er forget,
Are cherished where they once were shrin'd.

Passions in all their wildness felt,
Now with more sober feelings join,
Changed only as alloyers melt
Pure gold into a lighter coin.—

152

When sickening oft at hope deferr'd,
My wounded spirit sought relief,
No sister's gentle voice was heard,
To soothe a brother's lonely grief.

Though this is joy to me unknown,
Oft have I wished the blessing mine:—
O, that that sister's soothing tone,
Would flow from lips as loved as thine!

153

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF “THE PLEASURES OF HOPE,” PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Yes, I will yield me to that bland controul,
With promised bliss that soothes the anxious soul,
Nor think the whispered “song of Hope untrue,”
That when these pages meet your raptured view,
Your heart, that wakes at Feeling's magic tone,
Will form a fairy vision of its own,
And fondly chuse some favoured youth to rove,
With you through roseate bowers of peace and love;

154

Bowers, which in fancy's eye are blooming fair,
As Hope pourtrays my image cherished there,
And bids me think, though years may intervene,
Time's sober touch will realize the scene.

155

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE JOY OF GRIEF.

The visions of departed joy,
From Life's dark course by Memory singled,
Though waking many a pensive sigh,
With fond delight are somewhat mingled.

Like twilight scenes to Poet's eye,
When fast the pale year is declining,
And bright amid a clouded sky,
The moon's unsettled beam is shining.

I feel a pleasure, though the tear,
Translucent from its cell is starting,
The fluttering of my heart is dear,
Though quick from scenes of bliss departing.

156

What is it that with magic force,
Can thus a charm from sadness borrow,
That loves to linger at the source
Whence flows the crystal type of sorrow?

It is not that I bid adieu
Sweet Ouse! thy undulating billow,
Though lovely is thy breast of blue,
And fair thy winding banks of willow.

Though oft upon thy verdant edge,
I've loved thy mazy tide to follow,
Starting the moor-hen from her sedge.
The heron from his haunted shallow.—

I cast behind my lingering eye,
And view in vision fair extended,
Scenes of such rich variety,
They mock the hues with which they're blended.

157

Here dewy meads and folding flowers,
Tall rock, and streamlet from its dingle,
Heaths clad with fern, and sunless bowers,
In one wild scene their beauties mingle.

Afar o'er many a valley dun,
The mountain's dusky woods are bending,
So thick, that scarce the fiery sun
Is seen behind their shades descending.

But where the river's wooded banks
The fisher's midway skiff is nearing,
It gilds the billows in their ranks,
Bright flashing now, now disappearing.

The Echo from the mountain cave,
From rocky dell the wild bird's measure,
And murmur of the chiding wave,
Might charm the ear awake to pleasure.

158

But when in Fancy's ear is heard
The farewell accents of affection,
Each trembling tone from Nature's chord,
But breathes more sad, more deep dejection.

And sure the eager step of Love
Would mid these scenes delighted linger,
To view the veil of darkness wove,
By pensive twilight's dewy finger.

But say can he who leaves behind
The loved, the cherished bloom of gladness,
In Nature's fairy visions find
A solace for his bosom's sadness?

Ah no! the heart by sorrow riven,
Will sleep not o'er so light a feeling;
The wound which Nature has not given,
But mocks her fancied power of healing.

159

The scene that meets my tearful eye,
May smile to day, may smile to morrow;
It cannot check the rising sigh,
It cannot burst the gloom of sorrow.

'Tis but a gale across the lake,
When hushed by Eve's melodious number,
That strives, but vainly strives to break
One billow from its sullen slumber.

For distant are the summer bowers
Where Fancy woke her sweetest measure,
And Friendship on the rosy hours,
Diffused the light of social pleasure.

Where if at Beauty's melting eye
A gentler passion was revealing,
'Twas marked but by a glance—a sigh—
In silent ecstacy of feeling.

160

So bright those golden scenes arise,
It seems some visitant from heaven
Had dipt them in the living dyes
That light the glimmering sky at even.

But they are fled,—those scenes so bright,
Fled like night visions of the sleeper,
And I but wake to mourn their flight,
A lone, a melancholy weeper.

Yet still can Memory burst the shroud
Of sadness with a sweet emotion,
Like sunbeams on a stormy cloud,
Or flashing waves on nighted ocean.

For whilst her power unlocks the springs,
Whence sorrow's dews are fast distilling,
Touched by her hand, the bosom strings
With rapture's finest pulse are thrilling.

161

Yes, yes, it is her magic force,
From silent grief the charm can borrow,
She loves to linger at the source
Whence flows the crystal type of sorrow.

Nor would I wish to find relief,
Though wildered, sad, and broken hearted,
For lovely is the Joy of Grief,
The woe that weeps o'er bliss departed.

162

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE HARP OF LOVE.

Gay were the scenes of Life with me,
My prospects fair as budding Spring,
When into rudest melody,
I first awoke thy dulcet string,
Sweet Harp of Love!

Rude were thy notes 'tis true, and wild,
So rudely wild that few could praise,
Enough for me, Palemon smiled,
And Leila's lips approved thy lays,
Sweet Harp of Love!

163

Changed are the scenes of Life with me,—
Low in the grave Palemon lies,
And Leila's false inconstancy,
Has hushed thy sprightlier melodies,
Sweet Harp of Love!

Since mute for ever is the voice
That praised my minstrel-wiles so long,
Since Leila owns another choice,
Nor longer heeds thy warbled song,
Sweet Harp of Love!

Till changed Life's dreary scene with me,
And gay again its Spring shall smile,
No longer can thy symphony
My bosom of its cares beguile,
Sweet Harp of Love!

164

Unless a maid like Leila fair
Should prove to fond affection true;—
But soft! the dream is light as air,
Till then, perhaps a last adieu,
Sweet Harp of Love!

165

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

CONCLUSION.

The showery eve is closing fast,
Sullen and sad the fitful blast
Sweeps o'er the forest bough;
And Autumn from her lonely heath,
Can scarcely cull a flower to wreathe
Her dark and joyless brow.

The deer is couching in the glade,
The grey owl from her piny shade
Sails through the falling gloom;

166

Whilst, eager for her golden store,
The mountain-bee yet lingers o'er
The wild-flower's scentless bloom.

Sweet murmurer! from the tangled dell
Return, and to thy fragrant cell
Thy latest tribute bring;
Thy path is wildered in the wood,
And dewy night-winds, chill and rude,
Ruffle thy wearied wing.

The mornings, flushed with rosy light,
That first allured thy summer-flight
To mountain, moor, and wave,
Are faded with the flowers of blue
That bending in thy quest, their dew
Of richest nectar gave.

And shattered by the waning year,
The wood's wild berries, red and sere,

167

And leaves no longer green,
Are floating on the turbid tide,
That rudely rushing, flows beside
Thy full-fraught magazine.

When in thy moss-inwoven nest,
Thy languid frame from toil shall rest,
In peaceful slumber bound;
Perchance the pilgrim passing by,
Who heard thy summer-melody,
And blessed the soothing sound;

Though not to that rude sound belong
The sweeter stream of Attic song,
Mellifluous, clear, refined;—
May spare thy rich, ambrosial cell,
In memory of the transient spell
That charmed his wayward mind.

168

So in the purple light of Spring,
Again thy wild, thy tender wing
May seek the honied flower,
To cull thy sweet and fragrant spoils,
And consecrate with duteous toils,
Life's short and valued hour.

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. INTRODUCTION.

POEMS, ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HYMN TO THE DEITY.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HENRY's HARP;

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. FRAGMENT.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. AN ORPHAN GIRL'S REFLECTIONS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ODE TO MEDITATION.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. EPITAPH.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS EXPRESSING A WISH FOR THE POSSESSION OF POETICAL TALENT.

I[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. MPROMPTU TO MARIANNE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ADDRESS TO THE SUN:

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HYMN FOR AN ORPHAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE BALM FOR EVERY WOUND.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. EPITAPH.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. INSCRIPTION IN AN ARBOUR.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HYMN,

FOR A DAY OF PUBLIC HUMILIATION.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HORACE, BOOK I. ODE I.

TO MECÆNAS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE BARD OF YARROW;

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM HAMILTON, Author of the beautiful Song, after the ancient Scotish manner, entitled “THE BRAES OF YARROW.”

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES, ADDRESSED TO ---.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. CONTEMPLATIVE STANZAS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. GOD UNSEARCHABLE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. EPITAPH.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO CONGAL.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IV.

TO SEXTIUS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. FAREWELL TO THE MAID OF MALLWYDD.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE HIGHLANDER.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF COLLINS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. MALVINA.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. DESCRIPTION OF A STORMY NIGHT.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV.

TO THE REPUBLIC.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES, TO A FRIEND IN SICKNESS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO MY LYRE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. EPISTLE TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE.

FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE TULIP AND THE ROSE.

ADDRESSED TO E---.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. PSALM VIII. PARAPHRASED.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IMITATED.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO ---.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ODE ON HUMAN LIFE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. HORACE, BOOK II. ODE III.

TO DELIUS.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. ODE FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO MARY.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. DESCRIPTIVE SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF CADER IDRIS, NORTH WALES.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES

WRITTEN IN THE HERMITAGE, AT THE FOX UNDER THE HILL, BURFORD-BRIDGE, NEAR DORKING, SURREY.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO ANNA.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ---.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. TO MARY.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. LINES,

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF “THE PLEASURES OF HOPE,” PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE JOY OF GRIEF.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. THE HARP OF LOVE.

[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable. CONCLUSION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INTRODUCTION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HENRY's HARP;

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

FRAGMENT.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

AN ORPHAN GIRL'S REFLECTIONS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE TO MEDITATION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO A FRIEND,

I
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

MPROMPTU TO MARIANNE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ADDRESS TO THE SUN:

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN FOR AN ORPHAN.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE BALM FOR EVERY WOUND.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

INSCRIPTION IN AN ARBOUR.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HYMN,

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE I.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE BARD OF YARROW;

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES, ADDRESSED TO ---.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

CONTEMPLATIVE STANZAS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

GOD UNSEARCHABLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPITAPH.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO CONGAL.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IV.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

FAREWELL TO THE MAID OF MALLWYDD.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE HIGHLANDER.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

MALVINA.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTION OF A STORMY NIGHT.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES, TO A FRIEND IN SICKNESS.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MY LYRE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

EPISTLE TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTION OF A BATTLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE TULIP AND THE ROSE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

PSALM VIII. PARAPHRASED.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IMITATED.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO ---.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE ON HUMAN LIFE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE III.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ODE FROM OSSIAN.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MARY.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DESCRIPTIVE SONNET,

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO ANNA.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ---.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

TO MARY.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

LINES,

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE JOY OF GRIEF.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE HARP OF LOVE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

CONCLUSION.