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Walter Scott.

ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me,

Seek out the wild scenes he was quitting, for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe;

Oh! none but some lover whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou could'st double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment to darken my way,

What voice was like thine that could sing of to-morrow,

'Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, The grief, Queen of numbers, thou can'st not assuage: Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

'Twas thou that once taught me in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain.
As vain those enchantments, O Queen of wild numbers,
To bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers-
Farewell then Enchantress!-I meet thee no more.



THIS world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,—

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

T. Moore.

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,-

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,

And Fancy's flash and Reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way,-
There's nothing calm but Heaven!


SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine,
What vanity hath brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

John Leyden.

So bright, whom I have bought so dear!
The tent-rope's flapping lone I hear,
For twilight-converse, arm in arm;

The jackall's shriek bursts on mine ear,
When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chericul's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams,
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks, stupendous piled,
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy play'd,

Revives no more in after time.

Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts, that soar'd sublime, Are sunk in Ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb fire drear-

A gentle vision comes by night,

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,

That once were guiding stars to mine;

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!-

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true;

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.

The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart-the grave

Dark and untimely met my view; And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death, has borne,
From love, from friendship, country torn,
To Memory's fond regrets the prey?

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn;
Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay!


T. Moore.

THOU art, oh God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the open clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Thro' golden vistas into heaven;
Those hues, that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes ;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine,

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.


Lord Byron.

IT IS THE HOUR when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds and waters near
Make music to the lonely ear.

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met;
And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue;

And in the Heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,

That follows the decline of day

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

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