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WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once

WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,

And climbed thy steep summit, O Morven, of snow,* To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,t Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with
you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;

I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,‡

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,

more

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?-ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!

No home in the forest shall shelter my head,-
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with
you?

TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR.

OH! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are
true;

The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years in a moment expires;
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow :
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my No more with affection shall memory blending.
view ;

And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions were gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy

knew:

Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
forgot;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye.
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene:
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.

Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. 'Gormal of snow' is an expression frequently to be

found in Ossian.

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis. Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

Breasting the lofty surge.'-SHAKSPEARE. The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you;
The few whom I love I can never upbraid:
The chance which is lost may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm d by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should
forgive.

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

You knew,-but away with the vain retrospection !
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present we part-I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last :
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
'Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.'
VAL. FLAC.
FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
Like striplings, mutually beloved,
With friendship's purest glow,

The bliss which winged those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below

The recollection seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:

Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu !

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever:
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet-ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies

Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course
Till mingled in the main !

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals:

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard !*
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,
That he, who sang before all-
He who the lore of love expanded-
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;

Little was a nom de plume of Tom Moore's.

And though myself may be the next By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner;
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in far cy's flight
I soar along from left to right;

My muse admires digression.

I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state:--

May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you.

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!

Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way! May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless.
And virtues crown your brow;

Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-
Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear,
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW
SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod.
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:

Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey at Chalk Farm.

Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill.

Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thée still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were inine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!'

To know some humble grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die-
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose;
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shadě,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
And calm its cares and passions into rest,

Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,-
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,-

Deplored by those in early days allied,

And unremember'd by the world besid

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Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be.
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest:
But nor cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?

WHEN WE TWO PARTED. WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss ;

Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve, That my heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,
How should I greet thee?-
With silence and tears.

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. FEW years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity

Preserved our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know'st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most,
Too soon forget they loved at all,
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign,
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estranged again.

If so, it never shall be mine

To mourn the loss of such a heart,
The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
As rolls the ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide,
Where stormy passions ever glow?
It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy :
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious world's control
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That world corrupts the noblest soul.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When thought ere spoke is unconfined,
And sparkles in the placid eye.

Not so in Man's maturer years,
When Man himself is but a tool;
When interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love and hate by rule.
With fools in kindred vice the same,

We learn at length our faults to blend;
And those, and those alone, may claim,
The prostituted name of friend.
Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be what all in turn must be? No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been, Man and the world so much I hate,

I care not when I quit the scene.

But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle though the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet),

E'en now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad

To join the vain and court the proud

There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame

Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame,

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, Will deign to own a kindred care? Who will debase his manly mind,

For friendship every fool may share?

In time forbear; amidst the throng

No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along;

Be something, anything, but-mean.

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd like thee:
I died: let carth my bones resign;
Fill up thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood: And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. WELL! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband's blest-and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass-Oh! how my heart Would hate him if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu ! I must away:
While thou art blest l'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew till seated by thy side,

My heart in all,-save hope,-the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn :
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,-and here he lies.

TO A LADY,

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.

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