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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, lost;
Where Nature lights her leading star,
And love is never, 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.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you.
For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than 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 affections 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.

STANZAS TO PAINTING.

Oн thou by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees
In union with the Graces start,
And sweeter by reflection please!
In whose creative hand the hues
Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;
I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!
And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue;
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,
From Love, the sire of Nature, sprung.
Does Hope her high possession meet?
Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet,
When all we love is all our own.

But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Then for a beam of joy to light
In Memory's sad and wakeful eye!
Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall song its witching cadence roll?
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat?

What visions rise to charm, to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt!
And cease that solace, too severe !

But thou serenely silent art!

By Heaven and Love was taught to lend A milder solace to the heart,

The sacred image of a friend.

All is not lost! if, yet possess'd,

To me that sweet memorial shine :
If close and closer to my breast
I hold that idol all divine.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o'er the loved, departed form,
Till Death's cold bosom half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.
She looks! she lives! this tranced hour
Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or glory's wealthy diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given, Where Beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy soft'ning, sweet'ning tints restore, For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then bless'd be Nature's guardian muse, Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems.

From Love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

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 deathwatch 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!

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"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 nightmares ride 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,

That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red

On the highborn blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy deathbed.
No weeping was there when his bosom bled,
And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,

And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer
At the blast of the hunter's horn;

When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field

With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shiver'd on helmet or shield; And the sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand!

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