Enough now thy story in annals of glory

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and

Spain;

No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me,

I never will part with my Willie again.

HUNTING SONG'

1

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase 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,

66

Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

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

1 [First published in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808, -and set to a Welsh air in "THOMSON'S Select Melodies," vol. iii. 1817.]

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;

We can show the marks he made;
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd·
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant 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 balk,.
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

SONG.

Он, say not, my love, with that mortified air,

That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd,

'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground,

Enough, after absence to meet me again,

Thy steps still with ecstasy move;

Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.

THE VIOLET.1

THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

1 This and the following piece appeared in the "English Minstrelsy." vol. ii. Edinburgh: 1810.]

TO A LADY.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE RESOLVE.'

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

'[Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808.]

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned tear,
By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,

Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,
In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides;
The flame its glory hurls about,
The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,

And glow'd a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought With dyes so bright and vain,

No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall tangle me again:

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,

I'll live upon mine own,

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,-
I'll rather dwell alone.