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Breathed from eternity ; for as a dart
Cleaves the blank air, life flies : now every TO
day If these brief records, by the Muses' art
Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift Produced as lonely nature or the strife
wheel That animates the scenes of public lise
Of the revolving week. Away, away, Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part ; And if these transcripts of the private heart So timely grace the immortal wing may
All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ; Have gained a sanction from thy falling
And honour rest upon the senseless clay. Then I repent nut : but my soul hath fears
Memorials of a Tour in Scotland,
DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF | Then why these lingering steps? A bright
For a brief absence, proves that love is true; AUGUST 1803.
Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn,
That winds into itself, for sweet return. The gentlest shade that walked Elysian
plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains ; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies TO THE SONS OF BURNS, Beyond the stars, celestial paradise, Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR At will the crystal battlements, and peep Into some other region, though less fair, "The poet's grave is in a corner of the churchTo see how things are made and managed yard. We looked at it with melancholy and there ;
[bold painful reflections, repeating to each other his Change for the worse might please, incursion own verses, 'Is there a man whose judgment Into the tracts of darkness and of cold ;
clear,' etc.'—Extract from the Fournal of
my Fellow-Traveller. O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer,
'Mid crowded obelisks and urns, And on the verge of Chaos hang in sear. Such animation often do I find, [mind,
I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; Power in my breast, wings growing in my Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,
With sorrow true ; Perchance without one look behind me cast, And more would grieve, but that it turns Some barrier with which nature, from the
Trembling to you ! birth
[earth. Through twilight shades of good and ill Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on Ye now are panting up life's hill, Oh, pleasant transit, Grasmere ! resign
And more than common strength and skill Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;
Must ye display,
Its lawful sway.
Hath nature strung your nerves to bear Yet still with nature's freedom at the heart ; Intemperance with less harm, beware! To cull contentment upon wildest shores, But if the poet's wit ye share, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors ; Like him can speed With prompt embrace all beauty to infold, The social hour-for tenfold care And having rights in all that we behold.
There will be need.
Sad tidings to that noble youth !
Even honest men delight will take
Your steps pursue ;
A snare for you.
With service meet ;
His spirit greet;
Bedewed with toil,
Upturned the soil ;
Let faith be given ;
Is light from heaven."
And such revere :
And think, and fear!
But what is Gordon's beauteous face,
ELLEN IRWIN, OR THE BRAES
FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Now ye, who willingly have heard Upon the braes of Kirtle. *
The tale I have been telling, Was lovely as a Grecian maid
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn HIC JACET !
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
(AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)
Sweet Highland girl, a very shower * The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of beauty is thy earthly dower! of Scotland, on whose banks the events here re- Twice seven consenting years have shed Lied took place.
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; this household lawn; Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace
Joy have I had ; and going hence
I bear away my recompense. This little bay, a quiet road
In spots like these it is we prize That holds in shelter thy abode;
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes :
Then, why should I be loth to stir ?
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, I bless thee with a human heart:
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; God shield thee to thy latest years! For I, methinks, till I grow old, I neither know thee nor thy peers;
As fair before me shall behold, And yet my eyes are filled with tears. As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!
GLEN-ALMAIN, OR THE NARROW
In this still place; remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow glen; And maidenly shamefacedness:
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only orie:
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways
Have rightfully been laid at last Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent With no restraint, but such as springs
As by a spirit turbulent;
(wild, From quick and eager visitings
Where sights were rough, and sounds were Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
And every thing unreconciled ; Of thy few words of English speech:
In some complaining, dim retreat, A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
For sear and melancholy meet ;,
But this is calm ; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the bard sleep here indeed?
What matters it ?-1 blame them not
Was moved; and in such way expressed Oh, happy pleasure! here to dwell
Their notion of its perfect rest. Beside ince in some heathy dell;
A convent, even a hermit's cell Adopt your homely ways and dress,
Would break the silence of this dell : A shepherd, thou a shepherdess !
It is not quiet ; is not ease; But I could frame a wish for thee
But something deeper far than these : More like a grave reality:
The separation that is here Thou art to me but as a wave
Is of the grave; and of austere Or the wild sea : and I would have
Yet happy feelings of the dead : Some claim upon thee, if I could,
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!