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Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers,
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear in Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmoved, Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone :
Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O’er which remembrance yet delays, Still may I rove, untutor’d, wild, And, even in age, at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne,

Το you my soul is still the same, Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame; But, hence! ye hours of sable hue,

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er, By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more ; Thus, when the whirlwinds' rage is past,

And caves their sullen roar enclose; We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lulld by zephyr to repose. Full often has


infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre, But now, without a theme to choose,

The strains in stol'n sighs expire :

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My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown,

is a wife, and C- a mother, And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye which roll'd on me, Can now no more my

love recal:
In truth, dear L- '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


former flame, And passion's self is now a name; As when the ebbing fames 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 L '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 with the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn,
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.


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 sonl, 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 in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope, nor memory, yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures; If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :

This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had Aush'd,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys,

To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavour; And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know that thou art lost for ever.


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;

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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 along 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 dark’ning 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 madd’ning 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 or foes,

Associates of the festive hour:

* Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying 'either Low. land or English.

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