The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds, Low worldly clouds, upon Affection's star:
He sought to clear them—what was toil, that led To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth!
There's music in that bower, where the wild rose Has clung about the ash,-such plaining tones As the winds waken! There a harp is breathing, And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived Upon those melancholy sounds;—her head Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings, And the gold shadows of her long hair veil The white hand which almost unconsciously In melody is wandering. That fair hand Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses; That cheek proclaims the history of the heart- Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet You scarce might call it sorrow; and that smile But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still In the so lonely but so quiet grave.
Yes, she is dying! Though so young, and fair, Her days are numbered; and if e'er her cheek Wears the rich colour it once had, 'tis but The sad and lovely herald of decay,
The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb. (Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved, Could but ill brook the many trembling fears That absent love must know. Her fate was like
A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one,
Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's gone.)
She is within his arms, and they have met!
Evelin and Elizabeth? Yes. A flush
Of beautiful delight is on her face;
He clasps her silently, and his dark eye
Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth A life of smiles!-At length he gently says, 'Elizabeth, my own love!'-It was heaven
To think that she again could hear him breathe That dear dear name! She answereth not, but lies Upon his bosom motionless. He looks
On her sweet face-'tis fixed and pale in death! Literary Gazette.
No, never other lip shall press
The plighted one where thine hath been;
Nor ever other bosom press
The heart whereon thy head did lean.
Oh, never, love! though after this
Thy smile perchance no more
The very memory of that bliss
Shall keep me sacred all to thee.
Farewell, farewell! in woe or weal,
Though worlds may interpose to sever, And the world's law,' I wildly feel, Thy heart and mine are one for ever! Farewell! the ripe tear fills mine eye- My very inmost soul is riven! After such pang 'tis light to die-
Matilda, we shall meet in heaven! Literary Gazette.
HARK!-'twas the trumpet rung !— Commingling armies shout! And, glancing far these woods among, The wreathing standards float!
The voice of triumph, and of wail, Of victor, and of vanquished, joined, Is wafted on the vernal gale;
And Echo hath combined
Her mimic tones, to breathe the tale To every passing wind.
For Saxon foes invade
A proud, but kingless, realm; Oppression draws her crimsoned blade To ruin, and o'erwhelm :- "Tis Confray, on destruction bent, From Freedom's roll to blot a land, By England's haughty Edward sent; But never on her mountain-strand Shall Caledonia sit content,
Content with fettered hand!
Not while one patriot breathes,- While every verdant vale, And mountain-side bequeaths
Some old heroic tale:
The Wallace and The Bruce have thrown
A trail of glory far behind,
The heart, to youth and valour known, With giant strength to bind; While even the peasant, toiling lone,
Recalls their deeds to mind.
The Cumin leaves not home
To tell a bloodless tale;
And forth, in arms, with Frazer roam The flower of Teviotdale;
In Roslin's wild and wooded glen,
The voice of war the shepherd hears; And, in the groves of Hawthornden,
Are thrice ten thousand spears,
Bright as the cheek of Nature, when May morning smiles through tears.
Three camps, divided, raise Their snowy tops on high; The flag unfurling now displays Its lions to the sky.
The tongue of mirth is jocund there; Blithe carols hail the matin light; Though lurking death, and gloomy care, Are watching, in despite,
Bright eyes that now are glancing fair, Too soon to close in night!
Baffled, and backward borne, Is England's foremost war!- The Saxon battle-god, forlorn, Remounts his dragon-car !—
A third time warlike cheers are raised Beneath the noon's unclouded sun; Upon the patriot band it blazed, Saw thrice their laurels won, And hung o'er Roslin's vale amazed, As erst o'er Ajalon!
Blue Esk, with murmuring stream, Romantic, journeys by
Between its rocky banks, which seem To woo the summer sky,
With beechen groves, and oaken boughs, And bloomy wild shrubs, fresh and fair; While oft the pendent willow throws Its locks of silver hair
Athwart the waters, which disclose
Its image pictured there.
Three triumphs in a day!
Three hosts subdued by one! Three armies scattered like the spray Beneath one summer sun!— Who, pausing 'mid this solitude,
Of rocky streams, and leafy trees,- Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood, Would ever dream of these?
Or think that aught might here intrude, Save birds, and humming bees?
Roslin, thy castle grey
Survives the wrecks of time;
And proudly towers thy dark Abbaye,
With pinnacles sublime :
But, when thy battlements shall sink, And, like a vision, leave the scene,- Here, here, when daylight's glories shrink, On sculptured base shall lean
The patriot of the land, to think Of glories that have been!
Blackwood's Magazine.
HERE, where thought no more devours,
Rests the poet and the man; Life with all its subtle powers, Ending where it first began.
Stranger, if thou lov'st a tear,
Weep thee o'er his death awhile; If thine eye would still be clear, Think upon his life, and smile.
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