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" It was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to
shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. “Oh pity, great father of light, then I cry'd, Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo! humble in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness, thou only canst free.' And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in dejection forlorn, So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love and mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are
blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'
ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.
At the silence of twilight's comtemplative hour,
I have mus'd, in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin’d and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
To his hills that encircle the sea.
By the dial-stone aged and green,
To mark where a garden had been:
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew
place Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;
But patience shall never depart!
In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd
And leave but a desert behind:
When the faint and the feeble deplore:
A thousand wild waves to the shore !
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate; Yea! even the name I have worshipp’d in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again.
To bear is to conquer our fate.
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
Oh ! cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
Ah ! my sad soul, long abandun'd by pleasure ! Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drops may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. Yet,—all its fond recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw.Erin! -an exile bequeaths thee his blessing: Land of my forefathers!-Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields sweetest isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin! Erin go bragh!
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
The small-birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the
vale; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the sweet dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? -No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly sing
ing, Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice?
A king and a father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these val
lies, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find
But 'tis not my sufferings,—thus wretched, forlorn! My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn: Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial !-Alas! can I make you no sweeter return!
GRAY'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor;
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour:-
Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault,
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden,that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell,
guiltless of his country's blood.