176

LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.

The violet by the mossed gray stone

Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all thy beauteous power,
The fresh, green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.

LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. – Wilson.

To whom belongs this valley fair,
That sleeps beneath the filmy air,
· Even like a living thing?
Silent - as infant at the breast —
Save a still sound that speaks of rest,

That streamlet's murmuring !

The heavens appear to love this vale;
Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail,

Or 'mid the silence lie!
By that blue arch, this beauteous earth,
Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth,

Seems bound unto the sky.

O, that this lovely vale were mine!
Then, from glad youth to calm decline,

My years would gently glide;
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams,
And memory's oft returning gleams

By peace be sanctified.

There would unto my soul be given,
From presence of that gracious heaven,

A piety sublime !
And thoughts would come of mystic mood,
To make in this deep solitude

Eternity of time!

And did I ask to whom belonged
This vale? I feel that I have wronged

Nature's most gracious soul!
She spreads her glories o'er the earth,
And all her children, from their birth,

Are joint heirs of the whole!

Yea, long as Nature's humblest child
Hath kept her temple undefiled

By sinful sacrifice;
Earth's fairest scenes are all his own;
He is the monarch, and his throne

Is built amid the skies!

THE EVENING RAINBOW.- Southey.

Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky

Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile,
Flashing brief splendor through his clouds a while,
That deepened dark anon, and fe!) in rain.
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again

178

THE SKYLARK.

Such is the smile that piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace,
Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.

BOOK OF THE WORLD. — Drummond.

Of this fair volume which we “ World” do name,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare,
Find out his power, which wildest powers doth

tame, -
His providence, - extending everywhere, -
His justice, — which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, — no period of the same!
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair, dangling ribands, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

THE SKYLARK. – Hogg.

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! .

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 0, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on the dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather-blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place, 0, to abide in the desert with thee!

TO DAFFODILS.- Herrick.*

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You waste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon;

Stay, stay,
Until the hast’ning day

Has run
But to the even-song ;
And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along !

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything;

We die,
As your hours do; and dry

Away
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

THE HERMIT. – Beatlie.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove; 'T was then, by the cave of the mountain reclined,

A hermit his nightly complaint thus began; Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resigned;

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

6 Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe,

Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion ! man calls thee to

mourn; O, soothe hiin, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,

Full quickly they pass, but they never return !