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To natures deepliest stained with sin:
For aye entempesting anew
Th' unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do !
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.

Coleridge.

THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.

Last of a high and noble name,
We
may

not shed a tear for thee, Thy fall was in the noon of fame,

As warrior's fall should be.
O'er thy fair morn, like cloud of night,

Awhile thy youthful errors lay,
But touched like that by heaven's own light,

Were early wept away.

Thy steps are missed by wood and wave,

Lost to the scenes thy youth loved best,

The torrents weep, the tempests rave

Above thy bed of rest.
The hounds howl sadly at thy gate,

The echoes of the chase are o'er,
In vain the long-long night they wait,

The hunter comes no more.

No voice heard' amid thy halls,

Except the wild winds fitful sigh,
The morning beam that gilds thy walls

It cannot glad thine eye.
All lonely bloom the summer flowers,

Thy garden's silent walks along ;
The wild bird warbles thro' its bowers,

Thou canst not hear her song.

Cold is the heart that lovest thee now,

'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe ; Alas! what bids the hero's grow,

Must blight the bridal wreath. From blood the warrior's laurel

Midst blood and tears can only bloom; "Tis but a funeral garland hung

Above his mouldering tomb.

sprung,

old;

Thou wert not made thro' wintry years
To wither, till the heart

grows
I
weep

until it hath no tears,
To feel the blood run cold.
Who would not wish like thee to die,

And leave a deathless name,
To live like thee while life was joy,
And fall when death was fame?

John Malcolm, Esq.

THE LAMENTATION OF MARY QUEEN OF

SCOTS.

I sigh, and lament me in vain,

These walls can but echo my moan ;
Alas! it increases my pain,

To think of the days that are gone.

Through the grates of my prison I see

The birds as they wanton in air ;
My heart, how it pants to be free,

My looks they are wild with despair..

Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay

With silence and solitude dwell; How comfortless passes the day,

How sad tolls the evening bell !

The owls from the battlements cry,

Hollow winds seem to murmur around, ' O Mary prepare thee to die!'

My blood it runs cold at the sound.

Unchanged by the rigours of fate,

I burn with contempt for my foes ; Though fortune has clouded my state,

This hope shall enlighten its close.

False woman ! in ages to come

Thy malice detested shall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,
The heart still shall sorrow for me.

Mrs Hunter. EXTRACT FROM THE BEDOUINS.

The firefly's lamp is on the air,
The wild gazelle is in his lair,
And through the bush with stealthy foot
The ounce begins his noiseless route;
The alligator's babe-like cry,
Comes through the hushed air wailingly,
As down the broad and silent stream
It glides, like shadows through a dream.
The slave is swinging in his mat,
His toil's short Sabbath sleeping,
While round and round the vampire bat
Unwearied watch is keeping.
The Hindoo mother's lamp is fed,
O'er sleeping forms its light is shed,
And she hath ta’en her midnight seat
With fly-flaps at her children's feet.
The weaver's restless task is o'er,
The raised canoe is on the shore,
Nor longer to the hunter's voice
The echoes of the hills rejoice ;

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