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ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON.

BY A LADY.

KNOW'ST thou the land of the mountain and flood,
Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood;
Where the eagle soars forth on the wings of the
storm,

And her young ones are rock'd on the high Cairn-
gorm?

Know'st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave
Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave;

Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,
And their spirits are light as their actions are free?
Know'st thou the land where the thistle and rose
Mark the sweetness to kindred, the terror to foes?
'Tis the land of thy sires, 'tis the land of thy youth,
Where first thy young heart glow'd with honour
and truth,

Where the wild-fire of genius first caught thy young soul,

And thy feet, as thy fancy, rov'd free from con-
trol.

Ah! why does thy fancy still dwell on those climes
Where love leads to madness, and madness to

crimes;

Where courage itself is more savage than brave,
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave?
Though soft are the breezes, and sweet the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom,
Can the roses they twine, and the vines which they
bear,

Speak peace to the voice of suspicion and fear?
Let Phoebus' bright ray gild the Grecian wave;
But say, can it brighten the lot of a slave?

Or aught that is beauteous in nature impart,
One virtue to soften the Moslem's proud heart?
Ah, no! 'tis the magic that glows on thy strain
Gives soul to the action, and life to the scene;
And the deeds which they do, and the tales which
they tell,

Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell.

And is there no charm on thine own native earth? Does no talisman shine on the place of thy birth? Are the daughters of Scotia less worthy thy care, Less soft than Zuleika, less kind than Gulnare ? Are her sons less renown'd, or her warriors less brave,

Than the slaves of a prince who himself is a slave? Then strike thy wild harp, let it swell with the

strain,

Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again : Their deeds and their glory thy lay will prolong, And the fame of thy country will live in thy song. The proud wreath of vict'ry round heroes may twine,

'Tis the poet adorns them with laurels divine : And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb, Had the bard not preserv'd them immortal in bloom.

ELEGY

On a very amiable Young Lady, of distinguished musical excellence. Written at the approach of winter.

DR THOMAS BROWN.

O SPARE this simple turf of love,
Stern Power, that lay'st the forest bare!

The bloom, that smiles and sighs above,
Shall speak the sweetness treasur'd there.

O call not here thy blasts to rave!
Let but some gentle breeze prolong
Its ev'ning whispers o'er her grave,
Like living echoes of her song!

That strain is hush'd to mortal ear,-
The tender luxury is o'er;

The voice which heav'n might love to hear,-
Alas! that voice is earth's no more.

O thou, whose smile in gladness came,
While every breast the gladness caught!
Shall now a sigh attend thy name,
And all be anguish at thy thought?

The wit, which once could teach the wise, And charm even grief, till grief were gay,Ah! shall it now to memory rise,

Like dreams of sorrow far away?

How oft my heart has breathless glow'd,
How quick thy changeful strain confess'd,
That now, all faint as whispers, flow'd,
Now rush'd, a torrent, o'er the breast!

Then, while my soul, which o'er thee hung,
Seem'd with each note to faint or swell,
Why knew I not that angel tongue
So soon should be where angels dwell?

Yet, ah! even then, that charm so fleet
Not dearer, softer, had I deem'd;
I could but feel the song as sweet
As song of thine for ever seem'd.

Who, who could gaze on thee, and drink
Those tones, and fear one joy to miss ?
Who, in that hurrying rapture, think
Of time, of aught,-but thee and bliss?

Nor fades it now,-I feel it yet,-
It lives, till life all thought resign.-
For never can that ear forget,
Which listen'd to a lay of thine.

When sleep, in visions of the sky,
Shall round me call celestial bands,
And hymns of Seraph choirs reply
To holy harps of Seraph hands,—

While yet my half-wak'd sense shall thrill,
Nor know the gloomy vision flown,
One voice long-lov'd shall linger still ;-
And well my heart that voice shall own.

Even earthly airs,-if song again

Can charm this breast,-thy thought shall wake; And Music's saddest, dearest strain

Be softer, dearer,-for thy sake.

A NIGHT SCENE.

MR PERCIVAL, AN AMERICAN POET.

SOFTLY the moon-light

Is shed on the lake;
Cool is the summer night-
Wake! O awake!
Faintly the curfew

Is heard from afar;

List ye! O, list!

To the lively guitar.

Trees cast a mellow shade
Over the vale;
Sweetly the serenade
Breathes in the gale,

Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gaily and cheerily-
Wake! O awake!

See the light pinnace

Draws nigh to the shore; Swiftly it glides

At the heave of the oar; Cheerily plays

On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer

The lively guitar.

Now the wind rises,

And ruffles the pine, Ripples, foam-crested,

Like diamonds shine;
They flash where the waters
The white pebbles lave,

In the wake of the moon
As it crosses the wave.

Bounding from billow
To billow the boat,

Like a wild swan, is seen
On the waters to float;
And the light-dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along,
In time to the air

Of the gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,

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