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A temple given

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban-
Its space is Heaven!

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
Ana God himself to man revealing,

The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspéct above?

Ye must be Heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime

I read the doom of distant time;

That man's regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,

And reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth !—

Peace! Independence! 'Truth! go forth Earth's compass'd round;

And your high-priesthood shall make carth All hallow'd ground.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be; And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower, Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain-heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd.

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home,

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-colour'd Even, Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Beloved star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows;
So due thy plighted love returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose,
To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thec.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An Angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly-scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guidest the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brow so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,
O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

FIELD FLOWERS.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
T'han ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June.
Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my
mind,

And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Ev'n now what affection the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore!
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless

stage,

With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

DIRGE OF WALLACE.

THEY lighted a taper at the dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;

But her brow and her bosom were damp with
affright,

Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord;
And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board,
To tell of her warrior's doom!

"Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here!
For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep
The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die:
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
For Wallace of Elderslie!"

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis That a trumpet of death on an English tower

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And the sword that seem'd fit for Archangel to wield,

Was light in his terrible hand!

On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,

Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace And the desert reveal'd where his lady was wight

For his long-loved country die,

The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than Wallace of Elderslie!

But the day of his glory shall never depart,

His head unentomb'd shall with glory be palm'd,

From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall

start:

Though the raven has fed on his mouldering

heart,

A nobler was never embalm'd!

GLENARA.

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;

Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud:

Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They march'd all in silence-they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn :

Why speak ye no word?"—said Glenara the

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found;

From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borneNow joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

A DREAM.

WELL may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions

As make life itself a dream.Half our daylight faith 's a fable; Sleep disports with shadows too, Seeming in their turn as stable

As the world we wake to view. Ne'er by day did Reason's mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality,

Than was left by Phantasy Stamp'd and color'd on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight.

In a bark, methought, lone steering,
I was cast on Ocean's strife;
This, 'twas whisper'd in my hearing,
Meant the sea of life.

Sad regrets from past existence

Came, like gales of chilling breath; Shadow'd in the forward distance

Lay the land of Death.

Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought,
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre's face;
And my flesh's hair upstood-
'Twas mine own similitude.

But my soul revived at seeing

Ocean, like an emerald spark,
Kindle, while an air-dropp'd being
Smiling steer'd my bark.
Heaven-like-yet he look'd as human
As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman,
Lordly more than man.

And as some sweet clarion's breath
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death,
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre's eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them-turn'd its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.

"Types not this," I said, "fair spirit!
That my death-hour is not come?
Say, what days shall I inherit ?
Tell my soul their sum,”

"No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect,
Trust me, would appal thee worse,
Held in clearly measured prospect:-
Ask not for a curse!
Make not, for I overhear

Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch

The close-brought tickings of a watch

Make not the untold request
That's now revolving in thy breast.

'Tis to live again, remeasuring

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second lifetime treasuring

Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver !
Life's career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever

New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by Fate together spun ?

Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

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If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,

And new triumphs on land are before us,
To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in
their hair?

Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth

Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth!

Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's
spring:

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
While our maidens shall dance with their white-
waving arms,

Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallow'd thoughts so dear; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear.

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-Farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet-oh! no, no, no!

Time, while I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,
But not together-no, no, no!

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