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Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain.
O might I clasp her to my heart,
And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loath to woo, and long to win,
Was she by green Gleneslan mill.
Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon ; Rills murmur'd music and the stars

Refused to set our heads aboon :

Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
Our mixing breaths,-all was so still,
Till morning's light shone on her locks,--
Farewell! lass of Gleneslan mill.

Wert thou an idol, all of gold,

Had I the eye of worldish care,-
I could not think thee half so sweet,
Look on thee so, or love thee mair.
Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,-
Thine every wish of joy and love,

My lass of green Gleneslan mill!



Rejoice my little merry mate,

The blithesome spring is coming,
When thou shalt roam, with heart elate,
To hear the wild bee humming;

To hear the wild bee humming round
The primrose, sweetly blowing,

And listen to each gentle sound
Of gladsome music flowing.

The birds shall sing from many a bower
Joy like thy own obeying ;

And, round full many a blooming flow
The butterfly be playing;-
Be playing, love, on wings as light
As heart in thy young bosom,
And showing tints as fair and bright
As does the opening blossom.

The snow-drops by our garden-walk,
Long since to life have started;
They wither now upon the stalk;
Their beauty is departed:
Their beauty is departed, but
Flowers in the fields are springing,
Which by-and-by shall ope and shut,
As to the glad birds' singing.
The robin from the pear-tree bough,
Gives us of song our ear-full;
The morns are getting lightsome now,
The evenings growing cheerful:
And soon they'll be more long and light,
With warm and pleasant weather ;
And we, to see the sun-set bright,
May go abroad together.

Then shall our summer haunts again
Renew their former pleasures,
The poplar grove, the shady lane,
For thee be full of treasures.
For flowers are treasures unto thee,
And well thou lov'st to find them;
To gather them with childish glee,
And then in posies bind them.
Spring is to me no merry time;
Its smiles are touch'd with sadness;
For vanish'd, with life's early prime,
Is much that gave it gladness.
Yet, merry playmate, for thy sake,
I will not sing of sorrow;

But since thou canst its joys partake,

I would 'twere spring to-morrow.

CCCVI. HEN. KIRKE WHITE, 1785—1806. STANZAS, WRITTEN SHORTLY BEFORE HIS DEATH. Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of god-like deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre which I in early days have strung; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung

The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress; and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,

Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no


And must the harp of Judah sleep again?

Shall I no more reanimate the lay ?

O Thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day; One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to Thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.
CCCVII. PROF. JO. WILSON, 1785-1854.

It is the midnight hour:-the beauteous sea,
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,
Far down within the watery sky reposes.
As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd
With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,
That lies like a garment floating fair

Above the happy deep.

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land it is far away;

But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.

The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,

A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the night looks like a mellow'd day!
The gracious Mistress of the Main
Hath now an undisturbéd reign,

And from her silent throne looks down,
As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest!


A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! E'en in its very motion there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.


How wild and dim this life appears!
One long deep heavy sigh,
When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears,
The images of former years

Are faintly glittering by!

And still forgotten while they go!
As, on the sea-beach, wave on wave,
Dissolves at once in snow.

The amber clouds one moment lie,
Then, like a dream, are gone!
Though beautiful the moon-beams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away,

We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell;
And we wish they ne'er may fade ;-
They cease; and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never play'd!

Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours,

Each lovelier than the last;

But, ere the breath of morning-flowers,

That gorgeous world flies past;

And many a sweet angelic cheek,

Whose smiles of love and fondness speak,

Glides by us on this earth;

While in a day we cannot tell

Where shone the face we loved so well,
In sadness, or in mirth !

CCCVIII. REV. G. CROLY, 1785—1860.

This was the ruler of the land,

When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame :
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men, the more than king
Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,

His sovereignty was held or won;
Fear'd-but alone as freemen fear,

Loved-but as freemen love alone;
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,
By nature's first great title-mind.
Resistless words were on his tongue :

Then eloquence first flash'd below,
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,
Minerva from the thunderer's brow!
And his the sole, the sacred hand,
That shook her ægis o'er the land.
He perish'd, but his wreath was won,
He perish'd on his height of fame;
Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun;
Yet still she conquer'd in his name.
Fill'd with his soul, she could not die-
Her conquest was posterity!


'Twas noon! a blood-red banner played Above thy rampart port, Belgrade;

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