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My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have written "strange defeature" there.

And Time, with heaviest hand of all,

Like that fierce writing on the wall,

Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall.

And Error, gilding worse designs,

Like speckled snake that strays and shines

Betrays his path by crooked lines.

My scalded eyes no longer brook

Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look.

Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!

153

KIRKE WHITE

THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest-trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad;

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell,

That tells her hopes are dead ;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here!

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er Beauty's fall;

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most belov'd on earth

Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,

But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

Then, since this world is vain,

And volatile, and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys

Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With cautious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?

Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me;

Sad monitress! I own thy sway,

A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun

My race will run;

I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done!

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

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