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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.

WRITTEN IN A BLANK PAGE OF THE “ LADY OF THE LAKE.”

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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