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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;
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.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK PAGE OF THE “ LADY OF THE LAKE.”
Fair Ellen's form again we view,
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)
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,
And paint the flow'ry banks of Tweed,
Who now will draw the Pirate's crew,
Eager, their rapine to pursue;
And melt with grief, or pity's tide ?
By ev'ry act a name endear,