Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,— there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid 1803. INCIDENT AT BRUGES. IN Bruges town is many a street A harp that tuneful prelude made The measure, simple truth to tell, When silent were both voice and chords, The strain seemed doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet,-for English words upon the ear. Had fallen It was a breezy hour of eve; Quivered and seemed almost to heave, But, where we stood, the setting sun And, if the glory reached the Nun, Not always is the heart unwise, If even a passing stranger sighs Oh! what is beauty, what is love, Such feeling pressed upon my soul, By one soft trickling tear that stole Fresh from the beauty and the bliss SONNET. THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. TWO Voices are there; one is of the sea, Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: YARROW VISITED-SEPTEMBER, 1814. ND is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream ΑΝ Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?-a silvery current flows Been soothed, in all thy wanderings, And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake For not a feature of those hills A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Delicious is the Lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, But thou, that didst appear so fair Dost rival in the light of day Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in; For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in; Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts that nestle there- How sweet, on this autumnal day, And what if I unwreathed my "T were no offence to reason; own! The sober Hills thus deck their brows |