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Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou Willow of woe,
I tell thee no rage in her looks could I see;
I cannot, I will not believe it was so-

She was not, she could not be angry with me.

For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong,
It sunk at the thought but of giving her pain;
But trusted its task to a faultering tongue,
Which err'd from the feelings it could not explain.

Yet oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,
If Fanny my humble monition refuse,
Sweet Willow! the next time she visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom, and plead my excuse.

And thou, stony Grot! in thy arch may'st preserve
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew,
And just let them fall at her feet-and they'll serve
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet,
Let them fall on her bosom of snow ;-and I swear,
The next time I visit thy moss-covered seat,
I'll pay thee each drop in a genuine tear.

So may'st thou, green Willow, for ages thus toss
Thy branches so lank, o'er this slow winding stream;

And thou, stony Grotto, retain all thy moss,

While yet there's a poet to make thee his theme.—

Nay more-May my Fanny still give you her charms
Each evening, and sometimes the whole evening long;
Then, Grotto, be proud to support her white arms,
And, Willow, wave all thy green tops to her song,



MINE be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.


T. Moore.

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep,
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awak'd, ere the tear can be dried;
And as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light grief, that is sister to joy,

And the short brilliant folly, that flashes and dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Thro' fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
Thus some who like me, should have drawn and have tasted
The fountain, that runs by philosophy's shrine,

Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine!
But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves
Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see

One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

Walter Scott.

WAKEN lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day,

All the jolly chace is here,

With hawk and horse, and hunting spear; Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

"Waken fords and ladies gay."

Waken lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chaunt our lay,
"Waken lords and ladies gay."

Waken lords and ladies gay,
To the green wood haste away;
We can shew you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size,
We can shew the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chaunt the lay,
Waken lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee,
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay.


OH! the days are gone, when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn 'till night,
Was love, still love!

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!

Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

T. Moore.

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