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 THE 
 
 MINSTREL OF THE GLEN. 
 
 ^m (©ttj?r Poemsi.
 
 THE 
 
 jWm^trrl of tftt <!IIcn: 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY HENRY STEBBING. 
 
 LONDOX : 
 
 PUBLISHKl) HV L0N«;M.VN, HIRST, REES, OUME AND BKOVVN, 
 PATERNOSTER ROW,
 
 
 TO THE 
 
 IBlrb. Hotitrt Ht&r ctoojptrt 
 
 RECTOR OF INGLETHORP 
 
 My Dear Rede, 
 
 There are moments in 
 our lives when we forget our every past and 
 present care in the pleasantness of our 
 occupation, and lose the anxiety, which a 
 moment before was tormenting- us, in the hope, 
 or at least in the attempt, of convincing those 
 to whom we owe our gratitude, of our esteem 
 and affection. 
 
 Such is the pleasure I feel in addressing you 
 on this occasion. Trifling indeed is the tribute 
 of respect which I present you ; but it consists 
 of the effiisions of one whom your kindness 
 
 a 3 
 
 960YOO
 
 VI 
 
 lia« cherished, and whom, though distance 
 liave prevented your guidance of his literary 
 efforts, your smiles of approbation have en- 
 couraged, and your wishes and endeavours 
 for his welfare, supported. Would that the 
 \olume which is so truly honoured by your 
 name, were more interesting and connect, that 
 it might be more worthy of it. The unavoid- 
 able necessity under which 1 lie, of losing at 
 at least all the troubles if not all the anxieties of 
 authorship, before my departure to the Uni- 
 versity, in October, prevented my taking the 
 advantage of your corrections, or indeed of 
 the alterations which time miiiht have instruct- 
 ed even myself to make. If therefore you 
 feel yourself at all amused by the thoughts of 
 one, who has possessed small leisure to clothe 
 them in little other than in a veiy careless, 
 and probably unbecoming dress, I shall ob- 
 tain almost more than I hope ; but if fate 
 permit me to profit by increase of years, and
 
 vu 
 
 improve my judgment by a more extensive 
 knowledge of modern taste and ancient lore, 
 when I cease from severer studies, I shall per- 
 haps be able to produce verses a little more 
 polished, poems perhaps more interesting. 
 
 Of the pieces which compose this volume, 
 *' The Minstrel of the Glen" is by far the 
 longest. The obscurity in which it is veiled 
 will probably displease many. To these I have 
 nothing to say in my defence, except that, for 
 my own part, every picture appears to me more 
 interesting which is thrown into the shade, and 
 in which, the figures being but just discernable, 
 the imagination may amuse itself by distin- 
 guishing the characters, and adding, at its own 
 will, tints and shades, which, had it been suf- 
 fused with light, would have been prevented. 
 The " Wanderers" was printed near a year ago 
 and circulated among my friends ; as it was, 
 I may say, the first production of my muse, I 
 feel, though it possess perhaps nothing but its
 
 VIU 
 
 shortness to recommend it, loth to resign it to 
 obHvion. 
 
 In committing these and the other pieces 
 which compose this volume to the press, many 
 will say of me what the poet said of a perhaps 
 rather more intrepid personage, though not in a 
 more dangerous situation ; — 
 
 Illi robur et aes triplex 
 
 Circa pectus erat, qui fragilem tiuci 
 Commisit pelago ratem, &c. 
 
 But with the hope, my dear Rede, that the 
 perusal of it may not lessen me in the estima- 
 tion of one, whom every heart capable of 
 virtue must so warmly esteem, and whom every 
 bosom capable of affection must love, 
 
 I continue, with the sincerest respect. 
 Your much obliged. 
 And sincerely affectionate Cousin, 
 
 HENRY STEBBING. 
 
 August 25, 1818,
 
 itonttnt^. 
 
 Minstrel of the Glen, Canto I. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 The Pleasures of Contemplatioii. 
 
 The Wanderers. 
 
 Sotmets. 
 
 Verses addressed to a Friend.
 
 THE 
 
 mumvti of tilt mm. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Pa^e 23, line 3, for east, read west. 
 
 Page 27, line 9, for native, read infant. 
 
 Page 70, line 3 from the bottom, for his, read is. 
 
 A 2
 
 THE 
 
 min^tttl of m dSiltn. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A 2
 
 THE 
 
 Min&tttl of tiit dSiUn. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Stranger wandering o'er the wild. 
 Oh say what dream hath thee beguil'd 
 To wander down thisionely dell, 
 Where none, save sorrow, loves to dwell! 
 Pale is thy cheek, and many a te^.r 
 Hath fallen I ween, its bloom to sear; 
 If yet thy heart o'er sorrow brood, 
 Come tread with me this solitude. 
 
 A 3
 
 THE MINSTREL 
 
 The lonely still — the deepening shade 
 Shall bid awhile thy anguish fade. 
 Lulling the pang that wounds thy breast 
 To pensive melancholy rest ! 
 
 Slumbering is Dian's silver'd beam 
 O'er the low Glen and mountain stream ! 
 Softly the evening breezes stray. 
 Sighing to sleep the sinking day: 
 The sky's fair blue looks soft and bright 
 As sweetest maiden's eye of light, 
 And all is fair and witching still, 
 /Vs moon-shine melting o'er the rill. 
 Most sweet it is in such sweet hour, 
 Upon the hill or 'neath the bower. 
 To dream on joys and pleasures flown. 
 To bless the memory of the gone ; 
 And in still peace to sing again 
 Some long-neglected youthful strain.
 
 OF THE GLEN. 
 
 For, as the wild notes softly die, 
 
 Though wet with many a tear the eye, 
 
 Each joy and pleasure once that blest 
 
 Again delights the rising breast; 
 
 Each one our bosom held most dear 
 
 Smileth in angel beauty near. 
 
 And the fair shades of better days 
 
 Rise sweetly to our wakening lays. 
 
 But view'st thou yonder little glade, 
 
 Where the green willows hang their shade, 
 
 And briary roses droop their head. 
 
 Upon the purple violet's bed ; 
 
 There never yet the summer day, 
 
 Or Autumn sun hath shed its ray 
 
 To frighten from the lone retreat. 
 
 Calm twilight holding there her seat; 
 
 Spreading a soft and silken veil. 
 
 Where the sweet flowers their tresses trail. 
 
 And ever wet with ether dew, 
 
 Weep the long days of summer through; 
 
 A 4
 
 S THE MINSTREL 
 
 While the love-waking warbling throat 
 Of the night minstrel pours its note, 
 Through all the day, as if the night 
 Had curtain'd o'er the silver light. 
 For slumbers there all far from men, 
 The lonely Minstrel of the Glen. 
 
 So still— so fairy look'd the dell, 
 80 soft the twilight curtain fell 
 O'er the lone spot when first his tale, 
 The wandering harper of the vale. 
 Told me as I strew the bloom 
 Of flowers upon his grassy tomb. 
 And Stranger as we rest awhile 
 Beneath this tree our woes to guile, 
 I'll take that Minstrel's harp again 
 And strive to touch the simple strain. 
 My joys are faded, and my lay 
 An artless tale can only say ;
 
 OF THE GLEN. 9 
 
 But may it chance awhile to dry 
 
 The tear of sorrow in thine eye. 
 
 And wake in mine the dew of gladness, 
 
 To balm and sooth my bosom sadness. 
 
 The while calm thought with fancy strays 
 
 On vision'd joys of other days.
 
 .AA.n<
 
 THE 
 
 Min$tnl of t^t mm. 
 
 CANTO I.
 
 11 
 
 ■ I'^U': 
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTREL OF THE GLEN 
 
 itanto u 
 
 I. 
 
 Pensively o'er the traveller's way 
 
 The shade of twilight falls. 
 
 And dimly veils the mouldering grey 
 
 Of Cuthbert's castle walls. 
 
 No minstrel through its deep hush'd halls. 
 
 His lays of joyaunce sings. 
 
 His grey head sleeps 'neath weed-spread mound. 
 
 His harp, all broke its tuneful strings. 
 
 Is mouldering on the ground.
 
 14 THE MINSTREL Canto I. 
 
 Pensively sighs the gale of night 
 Around the lonely tower, 
 The gay wall flowers wave fair and bright, 
 As Sun on cloudy shower, 
 Black'ning its sad'ned darkness more. 
 As moon-beam on a lonely grave 
 Makes its still peace more deep 
 As the green willows gentle wave. 
 Saddens the lover's sleep. 
 
 The moon-beam all in beauty pale 
 
 Scarce peeps the clouds of evening through, 
 
 That sleeping on the slumberous gale. 
 
 Clothe with their shroud of tempest hue 
 
 The curdled heaven's serener blue. 
 
 Deep silence, save the wind's dull moan, 
 
 Rests round the fearful dark'ning height. 
 
 The song — the beam of day is gone, 
 
 But not as yet the storm of night 
 
 Hath woke, to lull the chill alliight,
 
 Canto I. OK THE GLJiNi 15 
 
 Which preys upon the breast, '» 
 
 In wild and dark mysterious dread -' 
 
 When all save one seem sunk to rest. 
 
 And death with silent misty tread 
 
 His night-wove shroud o'er nature spread. 
 
 II. i 
 
 With pilgrim's staff and silent pace, 
 A tear half starting from his eye, 
 With whitened locks and dark lined face, 'J »i5 
 As brown'd 'neath other sky, 
 Wanders a man of sorrow by ; 
 His look now bent upon the tower. 
 And the still ruins grey, 
 And now upon the ether bower. 
 Where, bursting from the clouds away. 
 The night queen sheds her silver ray. 
 On the cold stone he bends his knee. 
 Bent is his eye above,
 
 16 THE MINSTREL ('anto J. 
 
 His soul in silent extasy, 
 
 Weeps in the calm of love. 
 
 While his heav'd bosom's starting sighs 
 
 Seem like the thrilling throb of joy to rise. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark, softly mournful as the strain 
 That oft at evening's witching hour, 
 The lover hears so sad complain. 
 In forest walk or lady's bower; 
 Sweet melody, all sweetly wild. 
 Melts on the pilgrim's list'ning ear, 
 Soft as the strains that bless earth's child 
 Waking afar from earthly care. 
 And melting in the plaintive close. 
 As evening dews on summer rose. 
 O look wild fancy well may view 
 Upon the cloud that swims the blue, 
 The blue clear ether, forms reclined 
 Fair as the sunn'd wreaths that the wind
 
 Ca«*o /. OP THE GLEN. .17 
 
 Of summer evening leads beside 
 
 The mossy bank of fountain tide. 
 
 'Tis bright beneath the silver glow ; 
 
 The mystic strains all sweetly flow. — 
 
 'Tis darkling in the night again ; 
 
 No more is heard the fairy strain. — 
 
 The cloud is gone, the heavens are clear, 
 
 No angel forms are resting there, — 
 
 Yet swells again the witching lay, 
 As from the castle's ruins grey. 
 The Pilgrim starts — his placid look 
 Is gone, as if some feeling woke 
 Of distant day, swelled o'er his soul. 
 Wildly his dark eyes wandering roll, 
 Then fix upon the earth again, 
 As he would drink the pensive strain ; 
 And silently pale he turns him round, 
 But swells no more the lonely sound.
 
 THE MINSTREL Canto I. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis still — and miduight's deepen'd hush 
 In silent terror seems to rush, 
 Ev'n as the phantom billows flow. 
 All noiseless through the vales below. 
 Less bright the shrouded light is shed, 
 The pilgrim's drooping form is fled ; — 
 Again in silence dread and deep, 
 The bending ruins shade-clad sleep, — 
 Dreary and still, as o'er their frown, 
 Slumber'd the night in deepen'd brown. 
 Full many a year it is since they 
 Have seen the beam of festal day ; 
 Full many a year since serf or knight 
 Hath joyaunced there on banquet night. 
 Or the grey minstrel of the vale 
 Paused at the gate to tell his tale ; 
 So still its melancholy gloom. 
 The night seems fairer round the tomb.
 
 Canto I. OF THE GLEN. 1.9 
 
 But thrilling is the pensive fear 
 
 That wakes the soul to drop the tear, — 
 
 And softer is the evening- hour, 
 
 That darkens round a mouldering tower. 
 
 Wanderer, when along thy way, 
 
 The eve hath spread her cloud of grey, 
 
 Hast thou not loved to sit awhile 
 
 Beneath some hoary ruin'd pile. 
 
 And in the melancholy gloom 
 
 To weep and think upon thy tomb i 
 
 On bosom joys that long have fled. 
 
 On thy far home, or friends long dead i 
 
 Oft have I lulled Misfortune's smart. 
 
 And balm'd the pang which tore my heart ; 
 
 Oft have I lulled to sweetest rest, 
 
 My lonely soul and anguished breast; 
 
 The while my eye hath wander'd o'er 
 
 A dim dark tottering pile of yore. 
 
 Soft calm along my soul hath roll'd. 
 
 As the dark truth of dread it told, — 
 
 B 2
 
 20 TrtE MINSTREL 
 
 To the glad woild a truth of fear, 
 To Sorrow's weeping child most dear, 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Soft melt the clouded shades away, 
 As on the lake an echo'd lay ; 
 Along the sky the morning light 
 Sheds a faint gleam upon the night, — 
 A wreathy mist sleeps on the hill — 
 Cold gush the waters of the rill. 
 The forest deer hath not yet woke, 
 The mountain echo hath not spoke ; 
 Wet dew in fleecy whiteness lies 
 On the dark rocks, that dimly rise, 
 Half hidden 'neath the dusky night. 
 Half glimmering in the breaking light ; 
 And Summer morn, like Autumn eve. 
 Her shapes of wildness strange doth weave. 
 Softly they fade — in crimson streaks 
 The sable cloud of darkness breaks, —
 
 Canto I. OF THE GLEN. 21 
 
 The beam of matin star so brig lit 
 Is drown'd in floods of rosy light. 
 And the pale moon-ray on the blue. 
 Seems cold as frozen fountains' hue ; 
 While the dim'd stars around her throne, 
 In softest light so late that shone. 
 Look with their dull extinguished beam 
 Like gold drops sinking in a stream ; 
 But yet beneath the silent dell 
 Grey twilight finds a peaceful cell, 
 Weeps her soft tear-drops on the flowers. 
 That weep again night's peaceful hours. 
 
 'Neath yonder briary roses shade. 
 Who sleeps in balmy slumbers laid I 
 His vesture green, of fashion rude. 
 Befitting such wild solitude, — 
 His harp laid careless by his side, 
 Deck'd with wild flowers in artless pride I 
 
 K 3
 
 THE MINSTREL Vatito I. 
 
 'Tis he whose simple tale I tell, 
 The lonely Miustrel of the dell. 
 
 VI. 
 
 High on yon crag, o'er which the streak 
 Of morning first is seen to break ; 
 Whilome a little low cot hung. 
 Like eagle's nest on eiry swung, 
 Of Hubert fall'n, the last retreat. 
 And one as evening's blushes sweet. 
 Sweet Maia, as the soft spring mild, — 
 Sweet Maia, bright as spring's warm child. 
 Oft fancy, from those rugged heights, 
 Had borne her in her wildest flights. 
 Oft fancy, from the winter'd cliff. 
 Had borne her in her airy skiff 
 To many a fairy blossom'd isle. 
 Where love in trance of bliss did smile ; — 
 Oft wreath'd her brow with many a flower 
 That bloom'd no where save in her bower ;
 
 Canto I. OF THE GLEN. 23 
 
 While a bosom thrilling sympathy 
 Dew'd the calm lustre of her eye. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Evening had mellowed o'er the east, 
 And the far-echo'd pipe had ceased, — 
 The scarcely-breathing zephyr d gale 
 Spread twilight's soul-entrancing veil ; 
 And her young heart to thoughts most sweet 
 In wildest bliss did strangely beat. 
 Blending sweet witching hope with fear. 
 As their lone dwelling's wicket near, 
 Wander'd a stranger well arrayed, 
 Who from his onward path had strayed 
 To view the dim'd sun ere it fell. 
 Or evening star rise o'er the dell. 
 Fair was his form, and well his vest. 
 That his fair form all proudly drest. 
 Spoke noble birth and station high ; 
 While the bright gaze that lit his eye 
 
 B 4
 
 24 THE MINSTREL C'«««o /. 
 
 Told of a soul as noble too 
 As the calm'd scene he stray'd to view. 
 Well did his bosom love to see 
 Sweet nature veil'd so pensively,— 
 Well did his mute eye love to trace 
 The melody soft-breathing grace, 
 Wliich bidding" almost thought to cease, 
 Slept on the fair sky's smile of peace. 
 But visions far more wild, more sweet. 
 Bade his soft rising heart to beat 
 As strayed his gaze where Maia stood, 
 Wrapt in her mutely musive mood. 
 Oh who, whose heart e'er felt delight 
 To look on nature's beauty bright. 
 Feels not a charm more witching roll 
 From the soft beam of woman's soul i 
 
 Boots it not now my hasty lay, 
 ' Each sigh that swell'd their hearts, to say ?
 
 Canto I. OF THE GLEN. 25 
 
 Boots it not now how evening's hour 
 Came with a softer sweeter power ? 
 Sufficeth it alone to tell, 
 That each loved time her shadow fell, 
 Cuthbert, the noble and the good. 
 Climbed the rude heights and Maia woo'd. 
 Sufficeth it alone to say, 
 That their hearts blended like the lay 
 Of well-tun'd harps, and the soft kiss. 
 Moist with the nectar'd dew of bliss, 
 Had balm'd the vow, which fancy's child 
 Deems in her young hearts wandering wild, 
 Pure as the echoed vow the breast, 
 Breaks not its torpid peace to list, — 
 Pure as the vow the earthly mind 
 Deemeth full well the heart to bind. 
 But soon e'en that, in holy pile. 
 Had calm'd her bosom — but the guile 
 Of the worst hatred, love-born hate, 
 Frown'd on the brighter beam of fate, —
 
 26 THE MINSTREL Canto I. 
 
 Bidding each nurtur'd hope to cease. 
 Blighting the budding smile of peace. 
 
 VIII. 
 No more 'neath Cuthbert's bower of pride, 
 Sweet Maia listen'd by his side 
 The vow of love, or on the height 
 Bless'd with him the evening light. 
 The joyous hours of bliss were gone, 
 The sweet pure dreams of love were flown ; 
 With thought of her fair purity 
 Hope wither'd too, and dim'd his eye 
 Far wandered he o'er many a clime, 
 To lull the pang of other's crime ; 
 While she, that sad and drooping maid 
 Sear'd in her heart, all lonely stray'd. 
 
 The eve that shed its beauty bland. 
 Ere the pang'd Cuthbert left the land.
 
 Canto I. OF THE GLEN. '^ > 27 
 
 O'er yon tall cliff a fair pale form, 
 
 Bent like the vale-flower in a storm. 
 
 Awhile was seen yet ere the eye 
 
 Might wander to that crag so high 
 
 'Twas fled — but on a cliister'd wreath 
 
 Of flow'rets, from the dell and heath, 
 
 Slumber'd a fairy one of smiles, 
 
 Fair as he who the heart beguiles ; 
 
 Sweet with the smiles of native gladness 
 
 That beam'd through veil of native sadness. 
 
 No more was Maia's form beheld ' 
 
 By her fast-drooping sire of eld ; 
 
 But his chill'd heart, by that fair child, 
 
 Of half its woe was oft beguil'd, 
 
 Dreaming of infancy again 
 
 Till it forgot its lonely pain ; 
 
 While he as dewy rose more fair, 
 
 Bloom'd sweeter 'neath his silent tear ; 
 
 And when it roU'd no more, and peace 
 
 Bade age's quicken'd throb to cease,
 
 28 THE MINSTREL, &C. Canto I. 
 
 Lonely and sad he form'd him then 
 
 A rude harp of the ashen tree. 
 And wandered down the woody glen. 
 
 To teach its chords wild minstrelsy. 
 The soft notes of the nightingale 
 
 Taught him to tune its sylvan string ; 
 And the sweet echoes of the vale. 
 
 His heart mused melodies to sing. 
 Lonely and sad he form'd him then 
 
 A little silent rocky cell ; 
 For ever 'neath the lonely glen. 
 
 Like woodland genius to dwell. 
 
 END OF CANTO I.
 
 THE 
 
 mtnjjticl of tfjc mm. 
 
 CANTO II.
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTREL OF THE GLEN. 
 
 itanto ii* 
 
 I. 
 
 The towers of Wildred's lordly pile 
 Shine 'neath the sun's expiring smile ; 
 A cheerful stillness sleeps around. 
 As they in smiling trance were bound. 
 No voice is heard, no form is seen, 
 Along the walls, or on the green ; 
 All wearied with the sunny day, 
 They sleep within tlie hours away ;—
 
 •32 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Soft lulled in bowers of languid rest 
 Frame witching lays of lovers blest, — 
 And pour the cooling mead, and tell 
 Of Ronald's love for Isabel. 
 And must yon minstrel vainly wait. 
 With his fair harp, before the gate I 
 Sure, for so sweet, so soft a lay, 
 Some heart will bid the wanderer stay, — 
 And bide awhile to tune his string, 
 Till the dark night be on its wing. 
 
 A page, with welcome kind and bland, 
 Hath gently press'd his youthful hand, 
 And led him to the fairy bower 
 Where Isabel, the silent hour. 
 Charms with her sweetly plaintive lute. 
 More soft, more melting, than that flute 
 Which oft, in vale of Arcady, 
 Breathed forth its sylvan melody. 
 
 Canto IL
 
 Canton. OF THE GLEN. 33 
 
 Fair is her form, and meet to grace 
 
 Such wildly lone, such fairy place. 
 
 Like gem the Minstrel loves to view, 
 
 Curtain'd in heaven's serenest blue, 
 
 When Summer eve, with circling cloud, \ 
 
 Its maiden loveliness doth shroud. 
 
 Sweet as the rose of summer, when 
 
 The morning- weeps beneath the glen ; 
 
 And pure as that sweet flowret wild. 
 
 Mild Spring- and rugged Winter's child. 
 
 Born ere the Summer beam be seen, 
 
 Or nature don her vest of g-reen. 
 
 Why starts she from her rosy seat, 
 
 Why does her heart so wildly beat. 
 
 Why heaves her breast the quicken'd sigh. 
 
 Or rolls that big tear fi-om her eye I 
 
 No lay the Minstrel's harp hath rung. 
 
 No tale of sorrow hath he suno- • 
 
 Yet from her eye the light hath fled, 
 
 Yet on her cheek the bloom is dead ;
 
 34 THE MINSTREL Cant«lJ. 
 
 But in the Minstrel's circling arms 
 Blush again her maiden charms. 
 
 II. 
 
 The clear moon from her w estern tower 
 Soft silvers o'er the silent bower. 
 And night's sweet warbler to the gale, 
 Pours lonelily her plaintive wail. 
 The lake's deep waves, that ripple near, 
 Sooth with their munn'ring- sighs the ear, 
 As o'er its surface, dark and blue. 
 The mute eye turns its pensive view, 
 And sees beneath its placid face. 
 Reflected forth with softer grace. 
 The sk} all dappled o'er, and fair 
 AYith the light clouds, that thin as air 
 Show the half-hidden blue and light. 
 Silvering- the sable veil of night. 
 No circling- mist disturbs the scene, 
 No wand'ring breeze the deep serene, —
 
 CaiitoJI. OF THE GLEN. .35 
 
 The willows drooping- seem to rest, 
 
 On its still, pure, and peaceful breast ; 
 
 And the imbosoming shades around, 
 
 In darker woven curtain bound. 
 
 Spread round the margin's mossy green, 
 
 Deepens the bosom-lulling scene. 
 
 Oh! 'tis a witching hour when love 
 
 Through maze of wildest thought will rove, 
 
 As bound in speechless extasy. 
 
 The bosom's sob, the heart's big sigh, 
 
 Burst in a soft delicious agony. 
 < 
 
 III. 
 
 Like forms entranced by wizard's wand, 
 On some enchanted isle, they stand. 
 Not a breathing breaks the breathless scene. 
 But a still tear falls on the sward of green. 
 And their eyes are wet, as buds of flower 
 Bathed in the summer's silent shower. 
 
 c 2
 
 :3o THE MINSTREL ^'f'^f!.^/' 
 
 O Minstrel, fatal was the hour, 
 
 When first among the tuneful throng, 
 
 In lovely Isabel's lone bower, 
 
 Thou tun'dst thy harp to melting song ! 
 
 O Minstrel, fatal was the eve. 
 
 When first in nameless pleasure bound, 
 
 Thou sawest her rosy chaplets weave 
 
 To twine thy simple harp around ! 
 
 O Minstrel, fatal was the eve 
 
 Thou tunedst the lay the heart loves best, 
 
 And saw the quick and snowy heave 
 
 That kissed the dove upon her breast! 
 
 Yet fatal more, O Minstrel, is 
 
 This silent calm, this pensive scene ; ' 
 
 Yet fatal more such eve as this. 
 
 Than all the beauty of the green. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beauteously falls the moon-beam bright 
 Upon the little skiff" so light,
 
 ('onto IT. OF THE GLEN. 
 
 Tliai sleeps upon the mirror lake, 
 As on the wind the snowy flake ; 
 And fair it looks, as evening- mist 
 By the bright purpling- sun-beam kist. 
 Floating' along the ether blue. 
 Till it melt in pure embalming dew. 
 
 No more upon the shore they bide, 
 The skiff is on the silver tide, — 
 Swift as a sun-beam on it flies. 
 Swiftly his oar the rower plies ; 
 The moon-light lake is all in motion, 
 Like silver waves of fairy ocean ; 
 The shadows of the mirror'd trees 
 Wave as if moved by rising breeze. 
 And all the lonely scene doth seem 
 As waking fnmi enchanted dream. 
 Quick darts it o'er the rippled flood, 
 And gains the inlet of the wood ; 
 
 c 3
 
 38 THE MINSTREL Cantf) 11. 
 
 The dark brown shade, that spreads above, 
 Is spread o'er Isabel and o'er her Minstrel love. 
 
 V. 
 
 So fair the scene in that fairy bower, 
 
 But not so fair round yonder tower. 
 
 Doth the shade of the night cloud lower ; 
 
 But once it had as sweet a grot 
 
 As sweet as that enchanting spot ; — 
 
 And once beneath its bowery shade 
 
 Tuned the soft lute as soft a rnaid ; 
 
 But the wild eglantine that twined 
 
 Its shade with woodbine flowers combined. 
 
 Is drooping sad its blossoms dead. 
 
 That the soft balm of fragrance shed. 
 
 The pebbly fount that rippled near 
 
 In waves as glassy crystal clear. 
 
 Tossing their silver foam so high 
 
 They washed the briar-rose drooping nigh.
 
 Canto II. ,0F THE GLEN. - 39 
 
 Now scarce can find a rugged way 
 O'er many a mass of ruin grey. 
 The widowed dove shall there no more 
 With love-lorn plaint her mate deplore. 
 But one more pure more lone than she 
 AVeeps there her woes more plaintively. 
 
 Like a pale soft cloud of loveliness 
 When the beam of beauty on it press. 
 So thin that evening's darkening blue 
 Is seen its silky softness through, — 
 So light that if a sigh should stray, 
 'Twould fade in air and die away. 
 By the lone bower a pale form stands. 
 Mute fixed its eye and clasped its hands, — 
 Slowly it moves away — no sound 
 Falls from the step upon the ground; — 
 Noiseless it moves as o'er the stream 
 Falls the last light of evening's beam. 
 
 c 4
 
 40 THE MINSTREL Canto II. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hark — hearestthou not that shriek of pain? 
 
 Again — and again — and again — 
 
 It comes as if a deathful strife 
 
 In some dark soul had withered life. 
 Hark — heardst thou not that dying groan 
 Which sunk among the ruins lone? 
 Upon the listening ear it fell 
 As the echo of a midnight bell, 
 When through the cloisters' ghostly gloom 
 The pale lamp gleams by opened tomb. 
 Again 'tis still, but yet the sound 
 Seems floating on the air around. 
 And the soul listening thinks it hear 
 Strange converse through the vaults of fear, 
 In whispers low, and strange, and drear. 
 
 The pale moon through the mouldered wall, 
 Pours a soft stream along the hall ;
 
 Canton. OF THE GLEN. 41 
 
 Brightly it looks, but sadly bright. 
 Such ruins 'neath such lovely light. 
 So hushed like that lone pile it seems 
 
 Where beauty wasted years in dreams. 
 
 ' v.. r. 
 
 VII. 
 Is yon the moon-ray soft and light, 
 Or a pale phantom of the night? 
 It moves not, but within its eye 
 Seems the pure light of heaven to lie. 
 And fixed upon a form of death, 
 It seems as if it thought its light, 
 Could breathe the bosom-living breath. 
 And fade the gloom of spreading night. 
 Not a sigh is there but o'er its face 
 Thought silent seems to roll. 
 And a soft light with nameless grace 
 Looks beaming from the soul, 
 For a moment a light glow thou might'st trace ;
 
 3|g THE MINSTREL Canto II. 
 
 But as pale as the blushing red rose throws 
 On the lilied flower that by it blows. 
 
 Lived it because yon waking eye 
 Unclosed, because that heaving breast 
 Swell'd with a momentary sigh. 
 Then sunk again to lifeless rest ? 
 Mantled it o'er its shadowy cheek. 
 Because that throb of anguish came. 
 And as the big sigh strove to break, 
 It melted in a whispered name ? 
 Once more the dark-clad bosom sighs. 
 The wailings of a heart forlorn, — 
 "Wildly wander those opening eyes, 
 But the vision of the night is gone. 
 
 Upon the cheek there is no tear. 
 But dark despair and quivering fear ; 
 No dew of faintness on the brow. 
 But the hot flame of phrenzy's glow ;
 
 Canton. OP THE GLEN. 
 
 No voice of wailing round is shed, 
 
 But mutterings choked with deathly dread. 
 
 Oh ! why upon such passion'd breast 
 
 Doth the holy sign of heaven rest? ■rr.'i 
 
 Why doth that peaceful garb o'erspread, 
 
 In lowly guise such phrenzied head i 
 
 More meet the dagger bathed in blood, J 
 
 Than the cross of holiness, — 
 
 More meet for him than pilgrim's hood. 
 
 The murderer's mask, the bandit's dress ; 
 
 Yet calm and holy looked that face. 
 
 When last the moon in pensive grace 
 
 Slept o'er the ruins — bent above. 
 
 His eye beam'd calm as heaven's love ; — 
 
 His soul with sweetest peace seemed blest. 
 
 As 'neath the silent tow'rs he pressed. 
 
 For many a year o'er land and main 
 
 In sorrow, anguish, toil and pain, 
 
 Seem'd he t' have sped his pilgrimage 
 
 To win soft peace for wither'd age ;
 
 44 THE MINSTREL Canto 11. 
 
 To win the calm more sweet than heaven, 
 The calm of anguished heart forgiven. 
 
 From the low earth he starts — his eye 
 Gazes around, as fearfully. 
 As one just woke from midnight dream, 
 ' Where spectre visions wildly gleam ; 
 
 But no spectered form is there — the night, 
 
 Bathed in a flood of silver light, 
 
 Looks lovely, pure, and sweet, and calm. 
 
 As morning bathed in dewy balm. 
 
 For a moment in stony peace he stands, — 
 
 Now o'er his brow his burning hands 
 
 Are drawn with wild convulsive start, 
 
 A.S if the blasted life would part. 
 
 For a moment he droops — his silent breast 
 
 Seems sunk in sleep and deathly rest; 
 
 Now quicker it heaves and swells again 
 
 Than the wintered billows of the main, —
 
 Canto IJ. OF THE GLEN. 45 
 
 And quicker he flies from the moon-light hall 
 Than those wintered billows rise and fall. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All sweetly calm the lonely dell 
 Listeneth to the torrent's swell. 
 Blending its music loud and wild 
 With lone Lucinia's warblings mild. 
 Softly bend the weeping flowers 
 Through nature's fairy woven bowers, 
 And a fair stream of silver sheen 
 Bursts scattered through the woody green. 
 In such sweet wild, in such sweet cell. 
 The elves of midnight love to dwell, 
 Veath such still shade in such calm hour. 
 To dance around their Lady's bower, 
 Wea ving their mantles fair and gay 
 Of bri^^ht Lucina's silvery ray. 
 So wild i^nd still the rock-bound glen. 
 All shield ed from the world of men ;
 
 4{> THE MINSTREL, OantoJI. 
 
 So wild and still pale sorrow here. 
 
 Unseen, unknown may weep her tear ; 
 
 Love shield another Psyche's charms, 
 
 Imparadised within his arms ; 
 
 And Fancy tune her woodland shell, 
 
 More calm than 'neath Pierian cell. 
 
 Down yonder rocky fearful way. 
 
 Yet lonely wandering, onward stray 
 Two forms, like vapoury shadows pale 
 Moved gently by the flitting gale ; 
 Now hid by crags high pil'd above 
 In wizard guise, unseen they move. 
 Now full beneath the streamy light, 
 They burst upon the inquiring sight ; 
 And their love-moulded forms may tell, 
 'Tis the Minstrel and his Isabel. 
 
 Faint droops that lovely maiden form, 
 As the first primrose ueath the storm ;
 
 Canto II. OF THE GLEN. 
 
 But Love's fond throbing breast is there. 
 What couch so soft for heart of care ? 
 Around her fondly twines his arms, 
 What veil so fair for maiden's charms ? 
 Soft drop his bright tears at her feet, 
 What fragrant odours half so sweet ? 
 Oh, watch the slaves of royalty. 
 Watchfully as the lover's eye ! 
 
 Leave they the rocky barrier rude. 
 Gain they the glen's sweet solitude, — 
 On silky grass, 'neath fairy shade. 
 Their youthful hearts in peace are laid : 
 The while the gale of midnight sheds 
 Delicious fragrance o'er their heads. 
 For fair beneath that shade they rest, 
 In love and loveliness address'd. 
 As looked that happy pair of yore. 
 So famed in classic warbled lore;
 
 48 THE MINSTREL 
 
 When over Patmos' towering hill. 
 Brightening beneath the witching still, 
 The queen of evening's lucid star 
 Forsook her twilight-woven car. 
 To woo that shepherd youth, whose eye 
 Had wooed her in the azure sky. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hark ! through the silent pensive hush. 
 Trill the first matins of the thrush. 
 All like the lute of Isabel, 
 The wild notes melt along the dell. 
 From his sweet flower strown grassy bed, 
 The waking Minstrel lifts his head. 
 Wild throbs his heart, with wildest bliss. 
 Oh e'er throbbed minstrel's heart as his. 
 While o'er the form that slumbers by. 
 He turns his joy-illumined eye. 
 Spotless and lovely lies she there. 
 As her the first and lovliest fair. 
 
 Canto II.
 
 Canto IL OF THE GLEN. 49 
 
 When at his lonely waking hour, 
 'Neath Eden's rosy curtained bower, 
 The hermit of green paradise 
 Saw life's best bliss before his eyes. 
 Mute rests his gaze upon the grace 
 Of pensive peace, that o'er her face 
 Sheds the soft charm which veils the brow 
 Of angei soothing heart of woe. 
 So calm, and still, and sweetly pale 
 She looks — the while the morning gale 
 Gathereth, as it wantons o'er 
 Sweets to increase the violets' store ; 
 Or balm the dewy tears that fall 
 From the bright maids in Flora's hall. 
 But softly from he*- beaming eyes 
 The silken veil of slumber dies. 
 And shows all bathed in sweet delight, 
 The soft blue melting eye of light. 
 That on the Minstrel sweetly beams. 
 As angel vision of our dreams.
 
 THE MINSTREL Canto II. 
 
 X. 
 
 In every rude and rocky wild. 
 Nature provides for nature's child. 
 Through many a shade they stray all fill'd. 
 With sweets from woodland urn distill'd. 
 Imbalmed in dew, with freshened glow. 
 They pluck the fairest fruits that grow ; 
 While on a carpet smooth they lie. 
 Smoother than one of Tyrian dye, — 
 And shaded by as fair a dome. 
 As e'er was decked by Persian loom ; — 
 Then seek the bow'ry curtain'd cell, 
 AVhere the glen's Minstrel loves to. dwelL 
 
 XL 
 
 In the loneliest wild'rings of the wild, 
 
 Dark rocks, fantastically piled. 
 
 Rear their rude forms, all green and gay 
 
 With the light lichens leafy play. 
 
 Beneath an ivy-circled cleft. 
 
 By the Genius of the wilding reft.
 
 Canto II. OF THE GLEN. .Sj. 
 
 Opens into a twilight cell, 
 Where Sylvan once perchance might dwell, 
 Or fainting wood-nymphs cooly rest 
 After the chase, to loose their vest. 
 Beside the still romantic cave 
 Bursts into light the fountain wave, 
 That rolls with a pei'ennial flow 
 Into the little vale below ; 
 And swelling on with silvery course; 
 Bursts yonder in the torrent's force. 
 Calm, and still, and sweetly wild. 
 As ever nurstled Sorrow's child, 
 Beneath those rocks so rough and rude, 
 Is the calm sylvan solitude. 
 In such lone grot, in times of eld. 
 When Innocence the bosom held, 
 And Pan and Dian's buskiu'd maids 
 Dwelt chastely 'mong the forest shades. 
 Coy lonely Echo, never mute. 
 Would list the horn, would list the flute, 
 
 » 2
 
 52 THE MINSTREL Oante 11. 
 
 And imitate so oft the strain, 
 , That it swelled back as sweet again ; 
 And when the chase-delighting queen 
 Bounded along the dewy green, 
 Would mock with gay contempt the shout, 
 That mellowed from their gladsome rout, 
 As if she loved no joys but those. 
 Of such fair Solitude's repose. 
 
 Beneath such grot, the maiden wild. 
 Sweet Fancy, nursed her favourite child, 
 Taught him to tune her own soft string. 
 And her own melodies to sing ; 
 Led him along, in moonlight hour. 
 Through fairy's land and fairy's bower ; 
 And with a wreath, his blooming front would shade, 
 - That never in the stream of Time might fade. 
 
 END OF CANTO II.
 
 THE 
 
 Min^txtl of ttit mm. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 d3
 
 :. .t
 
 '6 
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTREL OF THE GLEN. 
 
 OTaitto iiu 
 
 I. 
 
 Say, smiles the waking- morning fair 1 
 
 Ask yonder wither'd form, | 
 
 That, starting from his couch of care, 
 
 Looks like the wretch, who 'scaped the storm, 
 
 Still seems the beating surge to hear. 
 
 Well may he look that wretch of woe, 
 
 Well may he curse the morning's light, | 
 
 Well may he strike his burning brow 
 
 B 4
 
 66 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Canto 111. 
 
 Maddened with phantoms of the night. 
 
 And the wild pang that blasts him now. 
 
 Despair thy form is dark as night. 
 
 And well thy smile each bud can blight 
 
 That decks the tree of life ; 
 
 Yet is thy bosom blasting reign, 
 
 Thy soul-benumbing, sleepy pain. 
 
 Far better than the burning strife 
 
 Of half expiring hope — the hate 
 
 Of life, which swells the heart, 
 
 When dark Remorse and blackening Fate, 
 
 From a bright cloud of pleasure start, 
 
 Doubting to stay or to depart. 
 
 II. 
 
 Full fairly shines the brightning morn 
 O'er the towers and o'er the lawn, 
 But not a minstrel tunes his lay 
 To cheer the long-wished festal day ;
 
 (■(into III. 
 
 OF THE GLEN. 57 
 
 Nor is there seen one maiden gay 
 
 To strew with summer flov/ers the waj'. 
 
 Lord Ronald ! clouded is the morn; 
 
 Her rosy visions all are flown, 
 
 Which made thee count her virgin smile, 
 
 And lose thy gloomy mood awhile ! 
 
 Lord Ronald ! shaded is the light 
 
 That beamed awhile upon thy night. 
 
 And the long-lost wish could give, 
 
 Long lost to thee, the wish to live. 
 
 Oh, say ! was that a tear which fell ? 
 AVould that it were, 't would cool the hell 
 Which burns within thee. — Morning's ray 
 Thus beam'd upon that distant day. 
 Doomed for to bless, in purest ties, 
 A lovely one of tears and sighs ; 
 When o'er the sacred altar's stone. 
 The taper flame already shone ;
 
 58 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Canto HI. 
 
 And holy man, like heaven's dove, 
 Stood there to sanctify her love. 
 Gleams not in blood thy villain scroll 
 That made man deem less pure her soul, 
 And instant clothe those lovely views, 
 In the night's dark mysterious hues ? 
 Bursts not thy heart, as wildly stray 
 The visions of that anguished day. 
 When she thy soul lov'd, lov'd too well. 
 Beneath thy love-born hatred fell ? 
 Hear'st ! hear'st thou not her thrilling cry ! 
 See'st ! see'st thou not the phrenzied eye 
 Of him, once deemed thy bosom-friend ; 
 When the fair soul, he thought to blend 
 With his, all pure as heaven's light, 
 Seemed darker than the murkiest night? 
 Hear'st ! hear'st thou not that bursting shriek 
 Which seem'd her wither'd heart to break. 
 As he she lov'd, as he to whom 
 She gave her soul — her virgin bloom,
 
 eanto HI. OF THE GLEN. ' 59 
 
 Spurned her in dark contempt away. 
 And curs'd her love, and curs'd the day ? 
 Hear'st ! hear'st thou not the deadly sigh I 
 See'st ! see'st thou not that agony 
 Which s weird his heart, when 'mong- the gay 
 Thou bad'st the minstrel tune the lay. 
 Which thou in darkest malice framed'st. 
 The while, in whispers low, thou named'st 
 Her the lov'd lost-one of his breast. 
 As well thy dark smile told the rest ? 
 
 III. 
 
 With hasty strides and heavings strong-, 
 Passiou'd Lord Ronald moves along ; 
 Then stops, and wildly turns him round. 
 Drinking with anxious ear each sound ; 
 For many a whisper, in the gale. 
 Tells tortii a dark mysterious tale. 
 They saw, at evenings latest hour. 
 The stranger Minstrel by the bower
 
 60 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Of Isabel ; and oft they'd seen 
 That wandering youth, upon the green, 
 Gaze on her, while his heart did sigh, 
 And wet and glistening seem'd his eye. 
 She too, whene'er the minstrel band 
 Waited some fair gift at her hand. 
 To him for ever gave the prize 
 With blushing cheek and melting eyes. 
 Beside, though gently Ronald wooed. 
 Love seemed not for his gloomy mood ; 
 And as her cheering maidens strove. 
 To wake the gentle sigh of love. 
 And hail'd with smiles the bridal day, 
 Mutely and pale she'd turn away. 
 Hushing the bosom-gladsome throng. 
 To tune some melancholy song. 
 
 High in his azure-woven car, 
 Beameth the beauty-breathing star ; 
 
 Canto JIJ.
 
 Canto III. OF THE GLEN. 61 
 
 And in their calm Lethean bowers, >{ 
 
 Melt in light the sleepy hours. 
 
 Full many a page, with moistened brow, 
 
 Sinks fainting 'neath the noontide glow ; 
 
 But yet where wanders Isabel, 
 
 No eye hath seen, no tongue can tell ; 
 
 Though they have sought her through each vale, 
 
 Each vale, where sings the nightingale, 
 
 And through each solitude where, lone, 
 
 The cushat dove makes pensive moan, 
 
 Through each lone wild she lov'd to tread, 
 
 When evenings latest beam was shed. 
 
 And o'er each hill, where'er her lute 
 
 Woke in her cave the maiden mute, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fast fades the shadowy light of day, 
 Yet stays the much-sought maid away. 
 More quickly beats Lord Wildred's heart, 
 More quick his sighs of anguish start, —
 
 THE MINSTREL Canto III. 
 
 Slow comes each page, but small avail 
 To calm his woe their varying tale. 
 Striving in vain, with tortur'd mind. 
 The half-discover'd truth to find. 
 But yet not all their search have done ; 
 Unheard, behind, yet lingers one ; 
 And hope, yet lingering, sighs to hear 
 Him, ere she leave the bosom drear. 
 
 As beats the heart as burns the breast 
 Of Moorland maid, when tempest prest 
 Shakes her low roof, and wakes the cry 
 Of her loved infant slumbering by. 
 The while all mute and sadly pale, 
 Starting she lists the deep'ning gale, 
 And deems its sad and pensive sighs, 
 Her wandering lover's distant cries ; 
 Or the snow, wildly drifting round. 
 His footsteps near her cottage bound ;
 
 Canto HI. OF THE GLEN. 63 
 
 So beats his heart, so burns his breast. 
 
 As sighs the croud around him prest. 
 
 At length, quick bounding through the throng, 
 
 Rushes the wish'd for youth along, 
 
 High swell'd his breast and flush'd his cheek, 
 
 Struggling in vain he strives to speak. 
 
 His words, in sobs convulsive, die, 
 
 Yet beams expressively his eye, 
 
 That speaks in eagerness full well. 
 
 The tale his lips refuse to tell. 
 
 Know'st thou of Isabel ? they cry ; 
 
 Awhile he rests, then bending nigh 
 
 Lord Wildred's ear, thus tells his tale, 
 
 V. 
 
 " Well may the house of Wildred wail ! 
 Well may lord Wildred droop his head. 
 Well may he mourn his glory fled, 
 • And the grey drooping harper sigh, 
 Ceasing his tuneful minstrelsy.
 
 THE MINSTREL ChhIo 111, 
 
 Well, well may Wildred's maidens mourn, 
 And weep their laughing pleasures gone. 
 When Wildred's heiress breaks her truth, 
 To wander with a Minstrel youth. 
 Ere the pale moonlight died away 
 Into the brighter light of day, 
 That slumbering on the cloud of night, 
 Beamed not — yet look'd all softly bright, 
 Wandering on in toil and pain. 
 And maddened that my toil was vain, 
 By the huge crags, which darkly piled 
 Surround that lone and silent wild, 
 The aged minstrel loved to call 
 The wizard's wild, or fairy's hall ; 
 The whispers of an unseen tongue, 
 Murm'ring the rocky cliffs among. 
 Fell on my ear — awhile 1 lay 
 Couch'd lowly, like the hunted prey ; 
 And, sad my bosom is to tell, 
 I heard it name sweet Isabel,
 
 Canto III, 
 
 OP THE GLEN. 65 
 
 Down the steep path I saw them wend, 
 I saw her on his bosom bend. 
 And wish'd I oft in sooth to throw 
 That stripling from the rocky brow ; 
 Whom now beneath the moonlight sheen, 
 I saw with harp and mantle green. 
 And knew to be that vagrant young 
 Who often, in these halls, hath sung, 
 And fir'd our minstrel's jealous eye, 
 And swell'd his angry bosom high ; 
 Because whene'er he tuned his strain. 
 He ne'er in sooth one smile could gain. 
 I saw them leave the rocks, and stray 
 Into the lonely shades away; 
 And listened till their voice, no more 
 Broke the calm stillness of the hour, 
 Then hied me back my tale to tell. 
 And weep for lady Isabel.
 
 i)G THE MINSTREL Canto III. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not a word Lord Wildred speaks, his eye 
 Flashes all red and franticly ; 
 And forth he starts like phrenzied soul, 
 Bursting a phantom fiend's control. 
 Ronald too wildly strikes his breast. 
 Whence the dark pang- seems life to wrest, 
 And laughs with maniac joy — his hand 
 Clenching, as if he held some brand. 
 Whose flame, as wild as his heart's strife, 
 Might blast at once creation's life ; 
 Then bounds, as fill'd with dark intent, 
 Whither Lord Wildred's steps are bent. 
 
 vn. 
 
 The shades of evening, fair and mild. 
 Fall gently o'er the rocky wild, 
 And nature seems, in slumbers calm. 
 To breathe o'er all a soothing balm.
 
 Canto III. OP THE GLEN. 67 
 
 Slow wending on liis pilgrimag-e. 
 Wanders that low bent man of age. 
 Who wept by Cuthbert's mouldering walls, 
 And phrenzied in its silent halls. 
 No phrenzied starts now tear his form^ 
 No maniac's wild impassion'd storm ; 
 But o'er his face is spread the gloom. 
 The night of melancholy's tomb, 
 Which hears no sound — no form that views. 
 Save anguish'd sighs and death's dark hues. 
 ' Well may he seek the lonely wild, 
 
 'Twas there his softest pleasures smil'd, — 
 'Twas there when peace his soul possess'd. 
 To sweetest visions throb'd his breast. 
 Onward he strays, nor moves his eye 
 To shun the deep crags shelving by. 
 Silently wandering down the height. 
 As a dark lone shadow of the night. 
 And views no eye his silent way ? 
 Yes ; as on darkness, waking day
 
 68 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Shedding a gleam before it fade, 
 Strays on his path a silent shade, 
 Moving unseen, unheard along, 
 Softly as melts a distant song» 
 Or the calm evening's latest beam 
 On the still waters of a stream. 
 
 VIII. 
 All pure and innocent as they 
 Who dwelt in Eden's bow'ry shade. 
 In purity and beauty stray. 
 The Minstrel and his fairy maid. 
 Oh, calm and joyous are their souls,^ 
 As the still waves the zephyrs kiss, 
 And fair the hope, that o'er them rolls, 
 As the loved thought of heaven's bliss. 
 And can her soul in pleasure rest ? 
 Doth no wild sigh disturb her breast ? 
 Awhile her thoughts all sadly roam 
 Upon her loved deserted home I 
 
 Canto III.
 
 Canto 111. OF THE GLEN. 69 
 
 Say, can her heart to pleasure throb 
 Without a sad repentant sob, 
 The while she turns around her eye 
 And views no form — no dwelling- nigh, 
 Save the lone Minstrel of the wild. 
 And the dark rocks around her piled I 
 Oh, yes ; for calm the breast may swell 
 With joy, where innocency dwell. 
 When love imparadise the soul, 
 Too pure to blend by man's control. 
 Oh, yes ; the heart may gladly throb 
 Without one sad repentant sob. 
 When to affection yields it more 
 Than to the bond of earthly power ; 
 And though the lonely solitude 
 Be dark and drear and wildly rude, 
 If Love's sweet vision'd soul be there. 
 Not Eden's self were half so fair. 
 Fondly they stray, and many a flower 
 Cull they, to deck their little bower, 
 
 E s
 
 70 THE MINSTREL 
 
 Canto HI. 
 
 All gladdened with the sweet employ. 
 Their souls of love, their hearts of joy ; 
 Then sing beneath the shade a lay 
 Pensively sweet, or wildly gay. 
 Unseen by all, save him above 
 Who well they deem will bless their love. 
 So calm their souls their pleasures seem. 
 As Summer evenings' bosom dream. 
 And is that trance so lovely broke. 
 Or has some rising feeling woke 
 To bid their pensive pleasure cease, 
 And mar their sweetly-soothing peace \ 
 Else why so wildly doth he start. 
 Or beats so quick her maiden heart \ 
 Why clings she nearer to his breast. 
 And pale and sobbing on it rest ? 
 Through the still shade's embowering green 
 A step his heard, a form is seen. 
 Yet so quickly fading from the view, 
 So lightly pressing on the dew,
 
 Vatito HI. OF THE GLEN. , *!^ 
 
 It seem as if no form were there. 
 Save Fancy's vision of the air, 
 
 IX. 
 
 From the fair shade in silent dread 
 They stray with noiseless, hurried tread, 
 Till yonder, where the flowerets bloom 
 Now mantleth o'er the silent tomb, 
 They viejv the man of pensive mood. 
 Low bending o'er the fountain flood. 
 Unmoved his eye, and still his breast. 
 Where life for ever seems to rest ; 
 His thought is wandering like the tide. 
 That as the fading years doth onward glide. 
 
 Silent he turns ; but yet the light 
 Looks not to beam upon his sight, — 
 Still seems his soul afar to stray 
 Through distant climes, or distant day. 
 
 E 4
 
 
 THE MINSTREL Canto HI. 
 
 Silent he turns ; but yet his eye 
 Seems not to view them bending nigh. 
 But mutely sleeps, with vacant gaze. 
 Upon the Minstrel's face, where strays. 
 Now fearful paleness — icy dew, 
 Now the hot glow and fever'd hue. 
 
 X. 
 
 As starts the soul, in deepest night, 
 Woke by the tempests' vivid light. 
 From Slumber's deep and deathly calm, 
 With the big throb of wild alarm, 
 Waketh he from his trance of dread, 
 Fadeth the night-veil o'er him spread, — 
 Throbbeth his heart in mute amaze, 
 As meets his eye the Minstrel's gaze ; 
 Blending w ith his, as night and day. 
 Did blend the shade and silver ray. 
 Pensive and still they stand — ^big tears 
 Full many weeps that man of years,
 
 Ca»to III. OF THE GLEN. 
 
 But sweet and peacefully they roll, 
 
 As heaven's balm upon the soul, 
 
 And through their bosom-fountain'd stream 
 
 Mournfully calm, his eye doth beam. 
 
 Beams as the eye where anguish wild 
 
 Melts in the sigh of pity mild. 
 
 Yes ; softly weeps that man of years, 
 
 And softly flow the Minstrel's tears 
 
 As his, — yet all unknowing why, 
 
 So flow his tears, — so swells his sigh. 
 
 By the fair stream's translucent breast, 
 
 On flower enamell'd couch they rest, 
 
 All loth to leave that pensive spot, 
 
 E'en for their peaceful sylvan grot. 
 
 As if those tears, like chains, had bound 
 
 Their sympathizing hearts around. 
 
 O Sympathy ! sweet bosom friend ! 
 With thee grief melts in bliss ;
 
 i^ THE MINSTREL 
 
 The joys of heaven's existence blend 
 
 In all the sighs of this. 
 
 Friendship may lull the gay of mind 
 
 In Folly's careless dream. 
 
 But firmer far her band will bind. 
 
 Bathed in Affliction's stream. 
 
 Fortune may flush in joyauce wild. 
 
 Her heart may wilder beat. 
 
 But the lone cot, where ne'er she smil'd. 
 
 Can tribute joys more sweet. 
 
 Unknown to her the speechless bliss 
 
 Thy power alone imparts. 
 
 When Love's affection's glowing kiss 
 
 Dries every tear that starts. 
 
 For good to every state below. 
 
 Hath given the power above, — 
 
 To Fortune, Pleasure's brighter glow. 
 
 To Sorrow, Sympathy and Love. 
 
 Canto 111.
 
 Vanto III. 
 
 OF THE GLEN. ^5 
 
 All calmly, lulled in peace, they rest, 
 As if by liappy slumbers blest ; 
 The Minstrel's eyes on Isabel, 
 The pilgrim's on the Minstrel dwell. 
 Pensive the pilgrim's form and mein, 
 Like hermit of the lonely scene ; 
 Gayly serene the pitying fair. 
 Like two twin angels of the air. 
 Far wandered from their fairy bower, 
 To sooth his latest mortal hour, 
 Or tune some sweet still melody, 
 To bless his bosom ere he dye. 
 
 XL 
 
 The moon shines brightly o'er the stream 
 Soft rippled by the kissing- gale, 
 So fair and bright thou well mighst deem 
 The day-light glimmered through a veil. 
 Hush'd is each sound, save slumber's sigh 
 That murmurs round the world so still,
 
 76 THE MINSTREL Canto 111. 
 
 The eve's soft whisper ere it die, 
 Like fancied echoes from a hill. 
 Calm, still, and bright creation sleeps 
 In loveliness most fair. 
 O'er many a budding floweret weeps 
 The midnight angels of the air; 
 Yet rest in peaceful silence there 
 The pilgrim and the youthful pair, 
 Nor wander they adown the dell 
 To list the torrent's mourning swell. 
 But in calm musings, sweet and still, 
 Linger beside the little rill ; 
 Each bosom growing as the scene. 
 Beguiled of sorrow and serene, 
 As if the still and deepen'd calm 
 Could hush each earthly dark alarm ; 
 As the sweet song of melody 
 Can hush the bosom's rising sigh. 
 And evening's music, soft and sweet. 
 Bid passioned heart less wildly beat.
 
 Canto III. 
 
 OF THE GLEN. 77 
 
 Full oft upon the morning blush, 
 
 The blush of virgin gladness, 
 
 A pale white cloud of mist will rush 
 
 And veil that smile in sadness. 
 
 Full oft upon the zephyrs' breast 
 
 In peace and beauty flowing. 
 
 The tempest nursing cloud will rest 
 
 In angry slumbers glowing. 
 
 As bounds in tangled forest way 
 
 The famished tiger on its prey, 
 
 As flies the ball revenge inspires, 
 
 As dart through night the tempest fires. 
 
 From the still thicket's curtaining shade 
 
 Bursts Ronald's form in hate arrayed. 
 
 He speaks not, but more red his eye. 
 
 More clench'd his hand, his breast more higli. | 
 
 Seems bursting with the biggen'd hell, ' 
 
 Too big within that breast to dwell. 
 
 His dagger blade hath left its rest, ( 
 
 Graspeth his hand the Minstrel's breast.
 
 78 ' THE MINSTREL 
 
 Laugheth in rage his phrenzied eye, 
 Drinketli it blood? why dims it? why! 
 
 As melteth through the still blue heaven 
 The softened light of summer even ; 
 As steals a stream, unheard, unseen. 
 Silently from the forest green, 
 Beameth before their startled sight 
 A shadowy form, as ether light. 
 Silently stretch'd its ghostly hand 
 Like vapour by the breezes fan'd. 
 Bent its fix'd eye on Ronald's form 
 That darkens, as a cloud of storm 
 More gloomy looks, more fearful seems 
 Beneath the breaking lightsome beams. 
 Stone-like his withered frame appears. 
 That yet the maniac's wildness wears ; 
 Marbled his face — yet on it dwells 
 Each mark the inward pang that tells. 
 
 Canto III.
 
 Cavto III. 
 
 OF THE GLEN. 79 
 
 As if in phrenzy's wildest mood 
 Enchanter's wand had froze his blood. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Is it the distant water's fall, 
 Tumbling- along- its rocky wall, 
 That, rattling through the silent wild, 
 Breaketh the }Deace of evening mild? 
 Is it the gale with sudden swell, 
 Loud rushing- through the lonely dell, 
 Or some rude fragment of the rock, 
 That, loosen d by the tempest's shock, 
 Throweth full many a sound of fear 
 Pealing upon the listening ear? 
 
 Hark! like the mountain smothered wii>d. 
 Bursts the wild cry of troubled mind. 
 Striving afar to flee away 
 From light of thought, from light of day.
 
 80 THE MINSTREL Cmito HI. 
 
 To seek the cave where memory's power 
 Shall pang the nighted soul no more. 
 Gone like a phantom of the night, 
 No more lord Ronald blots the light. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 If e'er thou have on summer s gentlest eve. 
 
 Ere the light died away, 
 View'd the fair forms the light winged zephyrs 
 weave 
 
 With the pale clouds of grey ; 
 Well do I ween thy soul hath noted oft 
 
 Two wreaths of beauty blend in one, 
 A moment blent in unison most soft 
 
 But as that moment gone, 
 Melting all from thy view 
 Into the heavens' pure blue. 
 
 Beside the little fountain stream, 
 Tet lovely 'neath the midnight beam.
 
 Canto III. OP THE GLEN^ 
 
 Three forms are bending low; 
 Full many a big- tear by the wave, 
 Deweth two heart-rent mortals' grave 
 With its embalming flow : — 
 Full many a big tear by the wave 
 Balmeth two lost — long lost ones' grave 
 With its soft dew of sadness; 
 But many a sweet tear with it rolls, 
 Blending three pure, united souls 
 In peace and pensive gladness, 
 Bidding love's flow'ret's fairest bloom 
 In beauty deck pale sorrow's tomb. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In loveliness full oft the night 
 Hath worn her magic vest of light ; 
 In lowliness full oft the flowers 
 Have nurstled midnight's dewy hours ; 
 Yet ever by that fountain's side. 
 In pensiveness, at even tide.
 
 82 THE MINSTREL Canto HI. 
 
 More plaintively the nightingale 
 Tells her soft woe in melting wail ; 
 And in that plaint will mingle oft 
 Notes as sweet, as sad, as soft, 
 While wander through the twilight dell 
 The Minstrel and his Isabel. 
 
 No more in Cuthbert's halls of grey 
 Is heard the weened spirit's lay. 
 Nor the low drooping pilgrim seen 
 Wandering beneath the moonlight's sheen. 
 No more in Wildred's hall or bower 
 The minstrel fears his lordly power ; 
 Or of heart-fancied sweets doth tell 
 W ith his wild harp to Isabel, 
 As secretly beneath the shade 
 He leads his bosom-treasur'd maid ; 
 But freely 'neatli their sylvan cell. 
 Doth tune his harp to fancy's shell ;
 
 Cfvito III. OF THE GLEN. 
 
 Save when he wakes to her the lays 
 Which tell the sighs of other days, — '■ 
 And by the little fountain's wave 
 Weeps pensively upon the grave. 
 Where, hushed by anguish, calmly rest 
 The forms the orphaned heart loves best; 
 Or weaves the fairest flowers that grow 
 To wreath his Isabel's sweet brow. 
 As 'neath their cell of peace they lie, 
 Or, curtain'd by the evening sky. 
 Watch the pure glow that gems the blue 
 Like violets spread with drops of dew, 
 Which morning's rosy-pillow'd sun 
 In his young beauty looks upon. 
 Love's bosom'd smile, warm fancy's glow. 
 The brightest flowers that bloom below, 
 Tribute sweet joys as heart may ken. 
 To bless the Minstrel of the Glen. 
 
 ^: 
 
 F 2
 
 84 THE MINSTREL Canto HI. 
 
 Tims in the evening's sinking gale 
 Sang the grey harper of the vale, 
 While rested vie beneath the dell. 
 Where sleep the youth and Isabel. 
 
 END OF CANTO III.
 
 Canto III. 
 
 OF THE GLEN. 85 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Stranger! the wandering moon is gone, 
 The pale soft light of eve is flown. 
 Broke is the charm which bade to roll 
 Soft memory's visions o'er the soul. 
 Well shall I prize my simple lay. 
 If, when thou wander far away. 
 Thy heart may breathe one sigh for me, 
 One moment swell in sympathy. 
 Oft shall the thought that thou mayst smile, 
 Full many a joyless hour beguile; 
 Oft shall my bosom love to swell, 
 As hope, though vain perchance, may dwell 
 Upon the thought that not in vain 
 Hath flowed for one my evening strain; 
 
 F 3
 
 86 THE MlNfciTBEL, &C. Canto 111. 
 
 Upon the thought, that though my lays 
 In truth be little worth thy praise. 
 Yet that thou'lt not despise the heart 
 Which strove its best joys to impart. 
 Nor all too harshly blame the strain 
 Which strove thy soul to cheer, thy cheering smile 
 , . to gain. 
 
 END OF THE MINSTREL OF THE GLEN.
 
 THE 
 
 wm 
 
 *f*%* 
 
 n
 
 THE 
 
 WANDERERS 
 
 O'er Mona's hills dark Autumn's day 
 
 Its last faint lustre sadly sheds ; 
 O'er the brown moss th' expiring ray 
 
 The twilight-veil of Evening spreads. 
 
 Drear and more drear the mountains grow, — 
 Dark clouds the pillow'd tempests bear, — 
 
 Deep murm'ring round the hoarse winds blow. 
 And wing the dun night o'er the air.
 
 90 roEMS, 
 
 No peasant's cot of peace is near, — 
 No kindly-cheering mirthful hearth ; 
 
 And darkly comes a night of fear. 
 To all that tread the mountain path. 
 
 Say, where shall yonder Wand'rers rest. 
 To shield them from the coming storm, — 
 
 Who there shall guard that virgin breast. 
 Or friendly stay yon aged form ? 
 
 Ah, none ! for friendship long has fled. 
 And ceas'd to sooth misfortune's smart. 
 
 Long has it ceas'd its balm to shed. 
 
 For throbbing breast, or bleeding heart. 
 
 And long has pass'd the happy day. 
 
 When joy and peace those Wand'rers knew. 
 
 And lov'd to list the minstrel lay. 
 As griefs unknown to them it drew,
 
 POEMvS. 
 
 Pale age, and grief, and saddest woe, '< 
 
 Have long- her father's bosom fill'd ; 
 
 And Ellen's heart, that once could glow, 
 Misfortune's icy hand hath chill'd. 
 
 Yet will she often sweetly smile, 
 
 And tell that sorrow soon may cease ; 
 
 And though her bosom bleed the while. 
 Talk of another day of peace : — - 
 
 Oft too the sudden sigh will start. 
 And crimson o'er her glowing cheek ; 
 
 The thought which swells her throbbing hearty 
 The mutely falling tear must speak. 
 
 She sighs for Edwy — fondest sigh 
 That e'er from virgin's bosom fled ; 
 
 She weeps for Edwy — softest tear 
 That ever eye of maiden shed.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 In rosy band, when life was young, 
 
 Sweet love had bound her youthful heart ; 
 
 And though her bosom grief have stung, 
 That tie it may not, cannot part. 
 
 Fond mem'ry too will tell the hour 
 When fortune smil'd and all was gay ; 
 
 Her peaceful cot, her green-wood bower. 
 And Edwy's vow at parting day. 
 
 But they are gone, and Edwy too 
 
 Has sought the plains where battles bleed ; 
 And long has bade the vale adieu. 
 
 Where once he tun'd the peasant's reed. 
 
 'Twas not he lov'd that wand'ring life — 
 'Twas not he wildly lov'd to roam — 
 
 'Twas not he lov'd the bloody strife — 
 'Twas sorrow drove him far from home.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Dark grows the night and far from rest, 
 In vain they seek the friendly bourn ; 
 
 That spot must bear her father's breast ; 
 That wild must hear her wildest moan. 
 
 Weary in vain her feeble arm 
 
 Strives the last steps of age to stay ; 
 
 Vain are the words which once could charm 
 With softest balm each grief away. 
 
 Still fainter droops her aged sire, . ^ 
 
 Still slower beats his dying heart ; g |, 
 
 Death smothers life's expiring fire, 
 And bids the prison'd soul to part. 
 
 Another throb, a moment yet, — 
 
 A moment must he bear the strife ; 
 Then will he every grief forget, 
 
 And calm death balm the wounds of life.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 A few more steps he trembles on, — 
 Palsied he bends his aged head ; 
 
 He sinks — the wilder'd thought is gone,— 
 He falls, and all the life is fled. 
 
 Oh, yes ! 'tis fled, and mildly now 
 
 Sweet sleep has clos'd his weeping eye ; 
 
 And calmly placid is his brow, 
 And still is every anguish'd sigh. 
 
 But thou, sad Ellen ! may'st not rest. 
 Nor yet life's saddest sorrows flee ; 
 
 Still grief must pang thy throbbing breast, 
 And steel a sharper barb for thee. 
 
 Faint and sad the life will languish 
 AVhen from every sweet we rove ; 
 
 Wild's the throb, and wild's the anguish. 
 When we leave the home we love,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 But drearer is the loneliness, — 
 
 A sadder tear will dew the eye, 
 When o'er the all that once could bless 
 
 We bend to hear the parting sigh. 
 
 Life's tender flower, though bent awhile, 
 And pale 'neath sorrow's winter gloom, 
 
 Hope's beamy ray may bid to smile. 
 And fair as flower of bliss to bloom. 
 
 But where the shade of death has spread, 
 No beam may cheer our lonely way ; 
 
 Each joy — each wish — each sweet is fled, 
 'Till come that other better day. 
 
 Anguish'd she shrieks — dark sorrow's child ! 
 
 That pang o'er thought the night hath spread 
 She bends — his cheek she kisses wild. 
 
 And gently stays his winter'd head.
 
 96 POEMS. 
 
 " Oh, sleep not yet, 'tis dark and drear! 
 
 " Hark! the storm comes ! thou may' st not rest! 
 " Oh ! leave not Ellen lonely here, 
 
 " Thou'lt softer slumber on my breast !" 
 
 Wild are her sighs along the air, — 
 Wild, wild she looks across the heath ; 
 
 And now her eye speaks pale despair. 
 Now stays it still and mute as death. 
 
 And now she starts, and round him binds 
 The kerchief from her burning breast. 
 
 And chides the loudly warring winds, 
 Lest they should spoil his peaceful rest. 
 
 Through the drear night of wildest storm 
 She sits— still fixed her sleepless eyes 
 
 O'er the calm'd visage of that form, 
 Which on her bosom lifeless lies.
 
 POEMS. 9^ 
 
 So lone — so mute — so pale — so fair — 
 
 Like marbled image 'lorn she sits. 
 Save when the rude wind stirs her hair, 
 
 As round it sadly sighing flits. 
 
 Morn gleams — the winter pinion'd light 
 Peeps faintly o'er the mountain's grey. 
 
 And from the circling arms of night 
 Awakes the beamy-vested day. 
 
 O'er the shade chequer'd hills afar, 
 
 Where the first be^ras with darkness play. 
 
 Some lonely straggler from the war, 
 Winds o'er the mountain-path his way. 
 
 He comes — the tear is on his cheek. 
 
 As if on other scenes he thought ; 
 And his slow step and sigh bespeak 
 
 That peace for him no sweet have brought.
 
 ^§ POEMS. 
 
 He comes! who comes ? oh, Ellen ! say, 
 Why sleeps so motionless thy eye ? 
 
 It would not so in other day 
 
 Have slumber'd when that step was nigh ! 
 
 'Tis Edwy ! come to view once more 
 The scenes that saw thine happiness : 
 
 'Tis Edwy ! him whom you adore ! 
 
 'Tis Edwy ! him you once could bless. 
 
 He comes ; in wild astonishment 
 
 He starts — chill'd stops the life's blood warm! 
 His heart beats not — his eye is bent, 
 
 Fix'd as in death upon her form. 
 
 Life sleeps! no sound — no tear — no sigh 
 Escapes grief's adamantine chain : 
 
 It wakes — and hark ! the maniac cry 
 Tells that 'tis woke to endless pain.
 
 POEMS. 99 
 
 Swift as the ocean's breezy wind 
 
 He flies, where sadly still they rest ; 
 
 Around her neck his arms are twin'd — 
 His head is on his Ellen's breast. 
 
 Hush ! that touch the spell has broke 
 That kindly still'd the pangs of life, — 
 
 That look, that sigh, that voice has woke 
 Again the bosom's deadly strife. 
 
 She gazes on him ; struggling thought 
 Returns — convulsive sobbings rise ; 
 
 She starts, her eye his eye has caught, — 
 She shrieks, — on Edwy's breast she dies. 
 
 fi 2
 
 THE 
 
 mtu&ntt$ of ©onttmjplation.
 
 ':\ 
 
 THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 Soother of woe-torn hearts! to tliee my strain 
 Awhile, though simple and untaught, I turn. 
 Fain would I snatch the fairest flow'ret from 
 The wild wreath, that entwines about my lyre, 
 To circle the calm front of thee, so long 
 My bosom's solace, and my heart's best friend. 
 To thee I owe each beam of sunshine that 
 Illumines my lone way ; and though fair hope 
 Hath almost withered from my eye, yet thou 
 Still tribut'st joy, a constant bosom friend. 
 
 G 4
 
 104 POEMS. 
 
 - Oh! who, when resting on some darkling height 
 Where the wild eagle nestleth, hath not felt. 
 As his mute eye he turned where the red sun 
 In silent, awful majesty sank low. 
 His wandering soul, forsaking the dark world. 
 Straying the seas of deep eternity. 
 Till midst its noiseless, depthless waves arise 
 Islands of bliss, where stays it all among 
 The visions of the heart, melting in love and bliss. 
 Say ! gives the earth, can fortune's blazon'd dome 
 Give but one moment's pleasure that can vie 
 AVith the sweet trance of evening's musive hour I 
 
 The sun is gone, — and not a trace is left 
 Where his bright chariot rode. The warm flush. 
 The rosy-crimson'd flush, the deep and purpled tint 
 That clad in melting hues the east are gone, *| 
 
 And a soft clear still blue, like beauty's vest. 
 Spreads as an ocean round the peaceful world, 
 pft hath my heart beat strangely when upon 

 
 POEMS. 105 
 
 The clear waves of an evening-purpled lake 
 
 I've view'd a little skiff that beauty steered. 
 
 Now even as that and its fair pilot too. 
 
 Most beauteously in brightest loveliness. 
 
 The dewy star and its fair arbitress. 
 
 The half forsaken mother of the loves, 
 
 Glides through the ethery way. — Is there a heart 
 
 That sighs not, when in silence and in peace 
 
 It gazes on its loveliness? — Rests it 
 
 Without the thought of one that once was dear ? 
 
 Without a sigh, when wandering memory paints. 
 
 Perchance a lost one of the breast, the one 
 
 Perchance that bade it first to throb, when fair 
 
 And beauteous as that rising star of evening 
 
 She stray'd adown the rosy vale of youth? 
 
 For oft in Contemplation's musive dream. 
 
 When dwells the soul upon the starry sphere. 
 
 When the eternal laws, eternity, 
 
 Space, immortalit}' it wanders o'er, 
 
 A brighter beam, a shadowy passing cloud,
 
 100' POEMS. 
 
 A wreath of mist will wake within the heart 
 A fleeting but delicious ecstasy. 
 Yes ; while the soul strays on the journey high, 
 The heart's big tears will roll in sweet and soft 
 delight. 
 
 Fair Contemplation ! 'tis not when the thought 
 Range all bewilder'd through eternity. 
 That thou do give thy softest, sweetest bliss ; 
 But when the heart of grief or loneliness 
 List, as it strays with thee to other worlds, 
 A lay that speaks of nature's sympathy. 
 
 Say, lov'st thou only on the mountain's brow 
 
 In dreariest solitude to dwell, where 
 
 Tenerift' his rugged rocks uplifts, or 
 
 Torneo opes her wizard nurstling caves i 
 
 Where Taurus spreads his tempest-scepter'd arms. 
 
 Or Andes shakes her diadem of clouds ?
 
 POEMS, 107 
 
 Say, lov'st thou only for to wander where 
 
 Pale solitude is clad in night of storms ? 
 
 And must the hearts who love thee, or who tune 
 
 Their strings to warble forth thy praise, must they 
 
 For ever make thy dwelling on the shore 
 
 Of some far-distant sea, or rock-bound stream ! 
 
 Must they forget, the while they sing to thee, 
 
 Their native valleys and their peaceful hills. 
 
 Their calm unruffled streams, their beechen shades, 
 
 Where memory sweetens with her vision'd dream 
 
 Thy bosom-swelling musings, — must they fly 
 
 To spots where not a single object wakes 
 
 The hearts sweet sympathy I 
 
 Beneath a shade, 
 Where the moon-silver'd blue is just beheld 
 Through the green canopy, reclin'd upon 
 A little fountain's mossy bank, whose wave 
 Unrippled sleeps in silent purity. 
 Thy handmaid Melancholy spreads thy couch. 
 There even the dew-drops, as they sink along
 
 108 . POEMS, 
 
 The thickly-tangled grass — a falling leaf — 
 A low-breathed zephyr'd sigh, bespeak a tale 
 Which, while it saddens, softly lulls the breast. 
 There pensive Memory, as it wanders o'er 
 The wild joys of our youth, weeps the still tears 
 Which Contemplation drys, as in her hand 
 She leads fair Hope, not like the flow'r-clad maid, 
 Whose silver'd vesture and whose chaplets gay 
 Lured us in younger hours, but calm and pure, 
 And spotless, as the peaceful dove of heaven. 
 But if a lonelier shade, a deeper scene. 
 Be more congenial to thy pensive soul, 
 Tlien let us seek, while Autumn winds the leaves 
 In low, deep, chilling murmers shed around, 
 At the dim twilight hour, the cloister'd pile. 
 Where through the high arch'd panes all gloomily, 
 The now just faded light peeps darkly through. 
 Then if, perchance, through the long aisles are 
 
 heard, 
 The spade and mattock of the dead man's friend,
 
 POEMS. " - Wd 
 
 Hard plying l»is late toil, — unseen, save when 
 His flick'ring lamp gleams dimly thro' the porch, 
 Showing the scattered bones he tosses round, — 
 Then will the soul feel a more pensive awe. 
 Than tempests wake on mountain solitude. 
 Here then the heart, freed from th' intrusive smile 
 Of hope, may woo calm Contemplation's charms, 
 May taste her deepest pleasures, nor mistake 
 Fair bosom'd Fancy for her silent form. 
 List ! heardst thou not along the silent gloom 
 A sigh that wakes thought sadd'ning in thy breast ? 
 On yon lone tomb, where the damp dews of night 
 Look dark and sickly, for awhile we'll rest ; 
 There will we rest, till from its silent shade 
 Rise the soft sounds that cheer'd our infancy ; 
 There will we muse on the first, dearest ties. 
 Of nature's love ; there too we'll weep again 
 The tears we wept long since, when our eyes traced 
 Age's pale wrinkles, o'er the smiling brow 
 Of those we lov'd, stealing all silently,
 
 POEM&. 
 
 As the life's latest bloom, unnoticed 
 
 By all save fond affection, died away. 
 
 The sharp wild pang of parting now is o'er. 
 
 And though the day with all its sweets be gone, 
 
 Yet sheds its sun, though fled to other worlds, 
 
 A calm delicious light along our way. f 
 
 Oh! sweet it is to muse by lonely tomb 
 
 Where rests a lov'd one of our heart, when some 
 
 fresh. 
 Some torturing pang, the world's imbitter'd scorn, 
 Or the dark treachery of a bosom friend. 
 
 Wake the breast's grief; — then. Contemplation, 
 then. 
 
 If the soul knows but how to fly to thee. 
 
 Even in its loneliness it tastes of bliss. 
 
 But neither in far distant solitudes, 
 
 In dreary wilds, or in the cloister'd pile, 
 
 Dost thou for ever dwell ; nor can the sons 
 
 Of haughty science or philosophy 
 
 Boast of thy smiles alone, — Lo! where the day,
 
 POEMS. Ill 
 
 Just breaking in the distant east, uplifts 
 The saffron veil of morning, while she melts 
 In rosy blushes, lightly slumbering on 
 The silver-tissuecl clouds. Not a warbler 
 O'er the green hill, as yet, hath wing'd its way ; 
 Nor can the eye yet trace the circling scenes 
 Clad in the twilight's silent gloom of peace. 
 Yet see, where pensively the peasant swain. 
 Leaving his little hovel in the vale. 
 Rests by yon stile, o'er which the aged elm. 
 Once its fair canopy, now wither'd bends. 
 His labor calls not yet; and his lov'd pipe 
 Hangs by his side, but not a strain he wakes; — 
 The mother bird before his eye hath sought 
 With fluttering joy her nest, yet moves he not 
 To snatch the prize, which might awake a smile 
 On his coy nymph's fair cheek. Mutely his eye 
 Strays, where the parting of the beech-clad hills 
 Shows the soft-breaking beauty, while his lips. 
 Half open'd with a smile of ecstasy,
 
 i 
 
 112 POEMS. 
 
 Move silently in speechless joy. — Perhaps 
 E'en now his bosom swells in trance as sweef 
 As Milton's knew, when imaged he the morn 
 Smiling o'er Paradise ; and did his heart 
 But know to speak its joy, perchance he'd paint, 
 In speech as glowing and as picturesque, 
 Though not in numbers labour'd as the bard. 
 The beauties painted in his soul. — Even thus 
 Oft Contemplation, in the lonely vale. 
 Gives brightening moments to a life, where peace 
 Without her smiles would languish dull as death. 
 Thus too th' untutored mind, which Science ne'er. 
 With her bright ray illumined, learns to rise 
 Above the darkness of its earthly state. 
 Enlightened by a beam more clearly bright. 
 For never stray'd the soul along the path 
 Of Contemplation, but, more pure, it sigh'd 
 For the fair image of the loveliness. 
 Which beamed for ever on its silent way. 
 The soul, then leaving earth and all its cares.
 
 POEMS. 113 
 
 For a few moments feels the ecstatic bliss, 
 
 That it shall feel, when, bursting into life, 
 
 Wilder'd in joy, it views eternity. 
 
 But fleeting are such moments, fleeting as 
 
 The hope which swells love's bosom when it sighs 
 
 In lone obscurity for beauteous form, 
 
 Which fortune clothes in visionary pride. 
 
 Could we but chain them to the laggard car 
 
 Of aching life, though Eden with her bowers 
 
 No more may smile, nor the green oaks, that now 
 
 Nurstle among their shades fast-flying war, 
 
 Distil their honied sweets, yet might earth's sons 
 
 Tune to eternal joy their melodies. 
 
 Thus morning's peaceful hour, when, save the east 
 
 All sleeps in shade, is fitted well to pay 
 
 Our vows to contemplation, or e'en when 
 
 The breathless morn, in languidness and light. 
 
 Sleeps o'er each fountain stream, and mead, and 
 
 hill. 
 Then on some little hillock, where the shade 
 
 H
 
 114 POEMS. 
 
 Of thick-set hedge row forms a curtain from 
 The beaming sun, 'tis sweet, in lulling rest. 
 To muse. — Thus, upon thy hills, fair Moushould, 
 Oft have I loitered, making my calm couch 
 On the soft moss which carpets o'er their slope, 
 While my eyes wandered thro' the smiling scenes, 
 Where Weusum, purer than the amber, flowed 
 Calmly and silently, save when upon 
 Her silver-bosom'd waves, some loitering skiff 
 Pass'd slowly by, while on her meadowy banks 
 The woody tufts look'd cooly dark — then too, 
 ff My eye hath strayed to where thy sylvan mount, 
 Sweet Whitlingham! uprears its verdant brow; 
 While through its deeply curtain'd shades low 
 
 peep'd 
 The fair white cottage, round whose rural meads. 
 So oft the thickly-clustered primroses 
 I cull'd, in infancy, to wreath the brow. 
 The brow of peace-imbosomed innocence. 
 Or e'en when golden tressed Hesperus, 
 Through the still twilight bowers of lonely eve.
 
 POEMS. 115 
 
 Guides Cynthia's silvery car — then too, 
 As well each bosom knows which e'er hath swell'd 
 From the fair dream of beauty, to the soul 
 Sweet Contemplation comes array'd in garb. 
 Fair as the bow which circled heaven's blue orb, 
 When from his wanderings o'er the dreary deep — 
 Dreary as winter'd path of life — the sire 
 Of nations saw, along the rising hills. 
 Peace-smiling loveliness — but dearer far. 
 Than the just breaking morn, the silent noon, 
 Or vesper with his fairy veil of light. 
 To Contemplation, is thy witching hour 
 Heart-lulling queen of silence, pensive night, 
 O, could the sons of pleasure tell how fair 
 Is thy calm form, when sorrow lifts thy veil. 
 No more they'd tremble when thou stray along 
 The slumbering world — blithe fortune never then 
 Peers on the peaceful way with haughty smile, 
 Nor may her gaudy beauty once awake. 
 Even in a simple breast, regretful sigh. 
 
 n 2
 
 116 POEMS. 
 
 From the still world the misty-mantled eve 
 Withdraws, and darkness clad in gloomy pomp^ 
 With melancholy silence, moves along. 
 Clouds thick and murky, scarcely sailing on 
 The deeply sighing winds invest the skies. 
 And all the world sleeps viewless, chaos like. 
 Now then, forsake awhile thy midnight couch, 
 And ponder out the craggy path which leads 
 To the dark beetling cliff, against whose base 
 The just awakening waves mourn sullenly. 
 While thine eyes strive in vain to view their course. 
 Save when a billow breaks in snowy foam. 
 Full many a silent heave will swell the heart 
 As muses it in such still awful hour. 
 When the ear list the murmurs sad and deep. 
 Of the night-hidden surge ; even as the soul 
 Of dark despairing melancholy, lists 
 The horror-breathing sighs of dim futurity. 
 But should the waves dash louder, or the winds 
 Awake wild uproar, while the bursting clouds
 
 POEMS. 117 
 
 Dart their red fury, gleaming o'er the sea 
 A horrid splendor, then no more the soul 
 May claim sweet Contemplation for its mate ; 
 But Melancholy, Avith her palsied child, 
 Lip-quivering fear, come paly louting on. 
 Or if the night in fairer guise appear. 
 And in soft silent loveliness rests o'er 
 The hills, then down the lonely vale, which leads 
 To the soft mossy bank of silvered stream, 
 Turn thy dew-moist'ned steps. There the pale flow'r 
 The virgin lily, bending in the wave 
 Kisses its soft reflected image, as 
 A gentle ripple of the water tells. 
 That its mute tenants wake — while musing here 
 Is it not sweet, though but a fabled dream. 
 To deem that 'neath the calm, so lovely pure, 
 Some beauteous nymph tuneth her coral shell, 
 To her fair virgin queen, as through the skies 
 Circled in veiling clouds, she wanders lone. 
 Thus in each scene, when from the world's dull 
 cares
 
 J18 POEMS. 
 
 Thoug ht for a moment wander, the warm heart 
 
 loves 
 To join its sympathy to some fair being, 
 Whom, pure as tear of heaven, eye ne'er beheld. 
 Nor e'en another's thought e'er dwelt upon, 
 Form'd in our souls and wedded to our sighs. 
 Dull were each landscape, dead each breathing 
 
 scene 
 Which now, as sweet as evening melody. 
 Delights the breast, save for the beings which 
 Imagination genders; the sweet thoughts 
 Of the warm heart embodied, the sympathies 
 Of spotless souls, inspiring forms as fair, 
 As blossoms shed from heaven on angels' path. 
 For these the sage loves the lone hermitage. 
 And, though imagination's fairy form 
 May little please his philosophic soul. 
 Yet oft converses it with visioned forms 
 As the young lover's heart — for these he deems 
 That his low roof hath more society.
 
 POEMS, 119 
 
 Than the wide world, and though his visions be 
 
 More sombre than the inmates of a heart 
 
 More light, yet bind they him as firmly to 
 
 His silent solitude of peace and rest. 
 
 These, Contemplation ! strow thy lonely path 
 
 With flowers of fairest hue, and to thy bowers 
 
 Oft lead the infant heart with dimpled smile 
 
 Of musive gladness — these, in sweetest trance, 
 
 People the poet's dream, and to his bosom 
 
 Gives Laura, Julia, or an Eloise, 
 
 O thou! whose bosom never glow'd, save to 
 
 Earth's noisy pleasure, and who never felt 
 
 Thy hours glide sweetly, but when passion'd sense. 
 
 Intoxicated, slept in stupid joy! 
 
 Much do I pity thee, for ne'er may soul 
 
 That once hath spoil'd with sensual disgust 
 
 Its native purity, regain that state 
 
 Of beauteous innocence, when every thought 
 
 Dreameth of purest loveliness — when she 
 
 Who woke my strains, holds softest empire o'er 
 
 H 4
 
 120 • . POEMS, 
 
 Life's careless moments, and the soul may stray 
 
 Fearless with her to the Eternal Soul. 
 
 For though lull'd reason from its sleep awake. 
 
 And burst the death-impoison'd chain, oh yet, 
 
 Pure Contemplation, with her placid smile, 
 
 Will little lure it, for her only joys 
 
 Are the soft dreams which spotless innocence 
 
 Inspires, when rising- from a world of scorn, 
 
 The heart seeks sympathies in purer realms. 
 
 Theme of my song, farewell ! a long farewell. 
 Life's sterner cares from thee and thy lov'd joys 
 Call my loth bosom. Would that thy calm dream 
 Might lull in peace my all too wandering heart. 
 And fate resign it but for thee to cherish. 
 Far from the scenes where many a silent joy 
 Though mix'd with sorrows oft have cheer'd my 
 heart.
 
 POEMS. 121 
 
 The world's unheeded wanderer, I stray. 
 
 Scenes of my infancy, farewell ! to thee 
 
 My heart will stray, when science's prouder form, 
 
 Perchance shall mock my feebly utter'd vows ; 
 
 Oft mourn my simple and forsaken harp, 
 
 To stranger ears untutored and rude, 
 
 To mine most dear. — Harp of my youth, farewell ! 
 
 O'er thy lov'd strings my lonely sigh first swell'd, 
 
 O'er thy lov'd strings my latest tear shall roll.
 
 ■ k'jJ 
 
 ,' 'i < 1 ■',' , ■ '..> : 
 
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 POEMS. 125 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 Weep'st thou, Emaia? — from thy youthful heart 
 Why comes the sigh? — upon thy lovely cheek, 
 Lovely and blooming as the morning's break, 
 The blossomy bud of love once seem'd to rest. 
 O Sensibility! dear fatal bliss, 
 By thee the young heart bared to withering woe. 
 Chill as the evening storm in summer's glow, 
 Fades like a flower beneath fair maiden's kiss. 
 Yet lovely — yes, most lovely does it fade, 
 And far more lovely is it for awhile 
 Even to droop beneath thy angel smile, 
 Than through whole years of real woe to wade. 
 Sweet are thy joys as bid heaven's sons to glow. 
 Thy tears more blissful far than all life's joys below.
 
 126 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 Misfortune! pale companion of my youth, 
 Thoug-h no fair smiles of joy be on thy cheek. 
 Though thy mute tongue no lay of pleasure speak. 
 Yet, lonely maiden! thou art kind in sooth; 
 For often when around me thou hast spread 
 Thy chilling dews, and bow'd my weary head. 
 Feelings most exquisite, soothing- to rest 
 The bursting sob, have luU'd my woe-fill'd breast, 
 While, as I look'd upon my path of grief. 
 And saw no friend but those who smiled relief. 
 The cold pale moon has caught my moveless eye. 
 Shining full fair upon the lonely tomb. 
 While all the other world look'd deep in gloom. 
 All save the peaceful tomb and the still cloudless 
 sky.
 
 POEMS. 127 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 O'er the green valley from the cloudless blue, 
 
 Waking sweet thoughtfulness, the pale round moon, 
 
 Silently wandering, looks calmly down; 
 
 As the rose-clustered hedges shake the dew, 
 
 In tearful beauty o'er the mossy bed. 
 
 Where, blending their sweet l)looms, full many a 
 
 flower 
 In silentness beneath the sylvan bower, 
 To peaceful eve sweet fragrant incense shed ; 
 While, lap'd upon their mossy down, some swain 
 To the remember'd melody, which oft 
 His parted love was wont to sing so soft, 
 Charm'd with his own lov'd reed attunes his strain ;? 
 For wake no music to the heart so sweet. 
 As that which bade it once in joy to beat.
 
 128 ^ POEMS, 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 Come nature's moralist, the waving fields 
 Laugh in their golden plenty, come and smile, 
 And view the sun which all the beauty yields ; 
 Then while their stores the gladning reapers pile, 
 Let thine heart glow with hope of many a day 
 Of plenteous delight and wealthy joy; 
 But if perchance the long-view'd scene may cloy, 
 Awhile then let thy loitering footsteps stray, 
 Through the still shady grove — no more thou'lt view 
 What waketh but the gladness of thy heart, 
 There the sear'd leaves, the wither'd grass that strew. 
 Will tell thee thou mid plenty e'en must part. 
 E'en when fair nature gives blest plenty birth. 
 That thou must wither in the joyless earth.
 
 POEMS. 129 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 Once more along- the twilight-vested hills 
 Soft-breaking morning sheds a glimmering light, 
 The waning moon her wandering task fulfils, 
 Hasfning- to veil her form in distant night. 
 A single warbler, from the tufted green, 
 Hath wing'd its flight to where of deepest hue, 
 Breaking the purpled gloom and silent blue. 
 One narrow streak of crimsoned light is seen. 
 Wide and more wide the melting glory spreads, 
 The splendor-bathed cloud in calmness smiles 
 As sleep in seas of bliss th' eternal isles. 
 Hark ! sweetly melts some far-olf melody ! 
 Say, trill the harp-strings of the waking sky ?
 
 180 ' POEMS. 
 
 SONNET VI. 
 
 Say, shall we loiter by the hast'ning stream, 
 And there in musive, melancholy dream, 
 Think even as its waves^time sinks away, 
 And weep because the ever-cirling hours 
 Fade fast as dies the bloom of summer flowers? 
 Is life so precious then, so blissful too, 
 That we should deem its very moments fair, 
 And worth our sighs tho' wing'd with every care i 
 Yes, airy Fancy gilds the distant view. 
 And makes this earth that heaven we all pursue ; 
 E'en wise men, while they look with searching eye, 
 Chiding man's love of life, deem themselves wise. 
 Because in sooth not life but time they prize. 
 And cherish that alone which teaches them to die.
 
 POEMS. 131 
 
 SONNET VII. 
 
 Deep in the forest's wild the birds are still. 
 And the thick beechen shade, whilome so gay, 
 Crackles beneath the melting snows, — the rill 
 Breaking the ice half gains its wavy play. 
 And pale chilled nature in the rustling gale 
 Seems breathing forth an almost joyous tale ; 
 While strays the primrose girl, in pensiveness, 
 Along the flowerless path, — yet oft a smile 
 Dimples her rosy budding lips, the while 
 She turns her eye adown the little dell. 
 Where soon again the violet shall bloom. 
 And the wild rose's bud in beauty swell. 
 Even thus too hope's fair vision'd flowers will bless; 
 But, ah ! they bloom not till they deck our tomb. 
 
 I 2
 
 132 POEMS, 
 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 Sad fades the last rose of summer ! — no more 
 Smiles its soft beauty in the morning dews ! 
 Pale, sad, and withered are the blushing hues. 
 That in its youthful loveliness it wore. 
 No more the sorrow-charming nightingale, 
 Deep curtain'd in the glen, or lonelier vale. 
 Tunes on its fragrant breast her moonlight tale. 
 Sad fades the last rose of summer ! — no more 
 Soft sighing zephyrs from its dewy bloom. 
 Waft to the waking morn their sweet perfume ; 
 But hast'ning Autumn, with his mantle hoar, 
 Vests its bent form. — Even thus pale sorrow too 
 Shall wither up the heart, when sympathy 
 With the dear objects of affection die.
 
 POKMS. 133 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 Spirit of heart-intrancing- loveliness. 
 Whether, in melting smiles at set of day, 
 When the soft sighing* gales breath silent bliss, 
 Thou sleep upon the purple-veiled ray ; 
 Or in the morning's blush, when on the wave 
 Of the calm bosom of an eastern sea, 
 Trested in bright dew she looks all placidly ; 
 Or in the eye, that to the soul first gave 
 Ecstatic life, like the soft heaven thou seem, 
 Visioned in holy sick man's fever'd dream. 
 Say, canst thou give one joy, save when the soul 
 Forget that thou art earthly, deeming thee 
 A child of heaven, that from humanity 
 Loves the dark cloud of heaviness to roll ?
 
 134 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, WHO SAID, MAN WAS BORN 
 
 FOR JOY. 
 
 Youth twines her rosy chaplets o'er thy brow. 
 And Pleasure lires thy bosom's genial glow, 
 Life young and joyous points no dart for thee. 
 Ne'er taught thy heart the truth she teaches me. 
 But O when calm reflection wake thy soul. 
 And swell the tear woe never taught to roll. 
 Think on the cares a well known breast destroy. 
 Then ask thy heart if man be born for joy? 
 Go turn thine eye along yon silent walls. 
 And list the sob that on thy friendship calls. 
 Go view the burning cheek, the phrensying eye. 
 Go lull the pang of misery's anguish'd sigh;
 
 POEMS. 135 
 
 Then as thou bendest o'er thy sad employ,* 
 Ask thy warm heart if man be born for joy. 
 Go thou who joy'st in fancy's lay of love. 
 Go list the lays her sweetest votary wove, f 
 Go list the lays, then view the friendless bed, 
 Where rests in memory's thought the minstrel's head. 
 Go list his sighs as dying reason roves 
 O'er the lov'd distant forms his bosom loves. 
 O'er the lov'd scenes where first warm hope inspir'd 
 The glowing dreams that fancy's visions fir'd. 
 Go view the form of him whose bosom knew 
 The fairest sweetest scenes of pleasure's view ; 
 Then while thou see'st pale death his soul destroy, 
 Ask thy pang'd heart if man be born for joy. 
 Go view the pile round which we love to stray. 
 When the grey twilight vests the parting day. 
 Leave beauty's risings star and view the cells 
 Where vice, where death, perchance misfortune 
 dwells. 
 
 * He was a piipii at the hospital of . t Chatterton.
 
 136 POEMS. 
 
 Go list the wretch's tale, go hear him tell 
 The woes that led from virtue ere he fell; 
 Then when thy soul his sighs of sorrow cloy. 
 Then ask thy heart if man be born for joy. 
 Go seek at vesper hour yon cloister'd pile, 
 Leave the vain world and muse in peace awhile. 
 Leave the fool's bauble — hope's too flattering beam, 
 And make not life the vision of a dream ; 
 Tliink on the hour when gloomy fate shall part 
 The first sweet treasure of thy passion'd heart; 
 Think on the hour when all thy blossom'd bliss 
 Shall fade in one deep sigh, one burning kiss ; 
 Then as her pangs thy own sear'd soul destroy. 
 Then ask thy heart if man be born for joy. 
 Go muse on distant years when thou and I 
 Distant, forgotten too, perchance may sigh, 
 Scorn'd by the world, because our bosoms knew 
 But what their feelings point at to pursue ; — 
 Scorn'd by the world, because perhaps too wild 
 Their glow from life's dull onward path beguil'd ;
 
 POEMS. 137 
 
 Lured from the path where all are good, all wise, 
 Who plod the surest road to fortune's prize ; 
 Where the dull fool without an eye to err, 
 All men deem wisest, and all knaves prefer. 
 Go muse on distant years when nature's woes 
 Shall damp the flame that now so brightly glows. 
 Go muse on woes to come, for come they must. 
 Ere fade this form of ashes and of dust ; 
 Then when thy soul their deep'ning visions cloy, 
 Then ask thy heart, if man be born for joy. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 WILKIN ANIJ YOUNCMAN, PUINTEKS, NORWICH.
 
 II
 
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