ANGEL'S MORNING SONG TO THE

SHEPHERD.

WAKEN, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew,

Hangs the emerald on the willow,

Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken-

Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

Round and round, from glen and grove,

Pour a thousand hymns to love;

Harps the rail amid the clover,

O'er the moon-fern whews the plover,

ANGEL'S MORNING SONG TO THE SHEPHERD. 295

Bat has hid and heath-cock crow'd,
Courser neigh'd and cattle low'd,

Kid and lamb the lair forsaken-
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

MARY GRAY.

SOME say that my Mary Gray is dead,

And that I in this world shall see her never; Some say she is laid on her cold death-bed,

The prey of the grave and of death for ever! Ah, they know little of my dear maid,

Or kindness of her spirit's giver ;

For every night she is by my side

By the morning bower, or the moonlight river.

My Mary was bonny when she was here,

When flesh and blood was her mortal dwelling; Her smile was sweet, and her mind was clear, And her form all virgin forms excelling.

But oh, if they saw my Mary now,

With her looks of pathos and of feeling, They would see a cherub's radiant brow,

To ravish'd mortal eyes unveiling.

The rose is the fairest of earthly flowers,

It is all of beauty and of sweetness,―

So my dear maid in the heavenly bowers,
Excels in beauty and in meekness !

She has kiss'd my cheek, she has kaim'd my hair,
And made a breast of heaven my pillow,

And promised her God to take me there
Before the leaf falls from the willow!

Farewell, ye homes of living men,

I have no relish for your pleasures;

In the human face I naething ken

That with my spirit's yearning measures.

I long for onward bliss to be,

A day of joy-a brighter morrow,

And from this bondage to be free

Farewell this world of sin and sorrow!

ODE ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF ·

MR PITT.

THIS and the two following are inserted as pieces that might be set to music, though as yet they never have been, and probably never will be.

AND art thou departed, ere yet from the field

The tidings of glory are borne ?

And art thou departed, our bulwark, our shield,

And live I thy exit to mourn?

My country's horizon for ever is shorn

Of the splendour that over it shone;

The darkness is shed, and the storm is gone forth, Our sun and our moon have both dropp'd to the earth,

The child of the mighty hath come to the birth,

But the strength of the parent is gone.