And mournful hue; and the rough brier, stretch ing His straggling arms across the rivulet, Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching With his tenacious leaf, straws, wither'd boughs, Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, as 'twere, For some misdeed. The story goes that some Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world Frown'd upon,) once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought Cast herself in the stream: you may have heard Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who Fell ill and came to want?-No! O she lov'd A wealthy man, who mark'd her not. He wed, And then the girl grew sick, and pin'd away, And drown'd herself for love. MELROSE ABBEY. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, For the gay beams of lightsome day When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, THE LAST SONG, Supposed to be sung by a young and innocent Girl, who is dying of long-cherished and undisclosed Love. PROCTER. MUST it be? Then farewell, Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long: Farewell! and be this song The last, wherein I say, "I lov'd thee well." Many a weary strain (Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath Utter'd, of love and death, And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain. Oh! if in after years The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart, Bid not the pain depart, But shed over my grave a few sad tears. Think of me-still so young, Silent, though fond, who cast my life away, The passionate spirit that around me clung. Farewell again! and yet, Must it indeed be so-and on this shore Shall you and I no more Together see the sun of summer set? For me, my days are gone! No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare As I was wont: O'twas for you alone! But on my bier I'll lay Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan, And, like a broken flower, gently decay. TO MY CANDLE. DR WOLCOT. THOU lone companion of the spectred night, To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleepHark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark, Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark, And swells the thund'ring horrors of the deep. From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies; Now blacken'd, and now flashing through her skies. But all is silence here-beneath thy beam, I own I labour for the voice of praiseFor who would sink in dark Oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days? Thus while I wond'ring pause o'er Shakspeare's page, I mark, in visions of delight, the sage High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands su. blime; A column in the melancholy waste, Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour- I view, alas! what ne'er should die, A Form that feels of death the leaden sleepDescending to the realms of shade, I view a pale-eyed, panting maid, I see the Virtues o'er their fav'rite weep. Ah! could the Muse's simple prayer A world should echo with her name. Art thou departing too, my trembling friend? Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her soulO let me, pensive, watch thy pale decay; How fast that frame, so tender, wears away! How fast thy life the restless minutes steal! How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire! In vain thy struggles-all will soon be o'er. Thus shall the sons of science sink away, THE FAIRY'S INVITATION. ANONYMOUS. COME to my bower in Summer's vale, That wanders from the moonlight sea. But ev'n its wing of viewless air The rustling boughs shall cease to move, And when the beams of rapture glow |