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When all was bright and gay ; With joy he heard the hunter's horn,

Or hail'd th’ op’ning day.

Full oft to meet a much lov'd friend,

Or some seductive fair ;

He could to Hope, e'en pinions lend,

And seem'd to cleave the air.

What now consoles me for that lot,

To which we all must come;

When high and low-alike forgot,

Approach their dreary home?

His latter days with comfort flow'd,

No cruel post-boy's speed;
No pond'rous wain's oppressive load,

Caused his poor heart to bleed.

And when, by Heav'n's unerring will,

The Fates my thread untwine; Oh! grant-resign'd, and grateful still,

A death not worse is mine.


Fair Ellen's form again we view,
(A form, the Bard might sketch from you,)
That soft melodious lyre could wake
The slumb'ring echoes of the lake;
That smile fierce Rod'rick Dhû could charm,
The savage Henchman e'en disarm
Might still the noisy guard-room's rage,
Or_thaw the frost of palsied age;
Make haughty James desert his sport.
Delight the cottage as the Court;
And long dispelling each wild dream,
Make live-your Malcolm Græme.

Pass some few years ! the scene is o’er ;

Scotia's great Poet charms no more;

Like Byron proves—their race now run,

« How vain is all beneath the sun!

That Genius vanish’d, (drop a tear)
Displaying Marmion's bold career;
The harp now mute, Apollo strung,
Which Northern streams, and mountains sung;
Whose magic power could once pourtray,

The stern Cov'nanters' firm array;

And charm with gentle Lothian's maid,

In colours, time can never fade.

Who now will sing of sweet Melrose,
Of hostile towers, or angry foes;

And paint the flow'ry banks of Tweed,
Monastic hall, and fiery steed?

Who now will draw the Pirate's crew,

Eager, their rapine to pursue;
Or sketch at Lammermoor the Bride,

And melt with grief, or pity's tide ?

By ev'ry act a name endear,
In friendship firm, in love sincere."
Then sighing bid a last farewell,
To our magician's lofty spell;


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Far! far-beyond the Western wave,
Will cheer and soothe the young and brave,

In Polar snows immortal bloom,

With all the Bards of Greece or Rome,

Delight in India's sun-burnt clime,
And laugh to scorn the shaft of Time.

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