And Carolina sighs alone,

a mother,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY.

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving :
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought with thee alone, Attempts, alas to find in many.

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar : I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss!
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone.
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill ;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart-is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boisterous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-

I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.

WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG
HIGHLANDER.

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climbed thy steep summit, O Morven,

of snow,*

To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear: Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;

And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions were gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no

No more with affection shall memory blending, The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,

And what would be justice appears a disgrace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you;

The few whom I love I can never upbraid: The chance which is lost may in future redeem you,

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affec tion,

With me no corroding resentment shall live: My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, That both may be wrong, and that both

should forgive.

If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

You knew, but away with the vain retrospec. tion!

The bond of affection no longer endures: Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

For the present we part- I will hope not for ever; For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endea

vour,

I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
"Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."
VAL. FLAC.

FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow,

The bliss which winged those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:

Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever:
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet-ah! never!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain ;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main !

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals:

"Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason:
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,

Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,

That he, who sang before all—
He who the lore of love expanded-
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!

Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.*
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner;
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;
My muse admires digression.

I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;--

May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,

If worth can recommend you. Yet since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,—
Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.
SPOT of my youth whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod:
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I
lay.

And frequent mused the twilight hours away:
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were
mine :

*