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CODE TO TIME.

Occasioned by seeing the Ruins of an old Castle.

BY OGILVIE.

re.. . I.. 1..

. on O THOU, who'mid the world-involving gloom. Sitt'st on yon solitaryspire! ::.

. Or slowly. shak’st the sounding dome, . : ', Or hear'st the wildly-warbling lyre; .. .

Say, when thy musing soul

Bids distant times unrol, And marks the fight of each revolving year, . Of years whose slow-consuming powr. Has clad with moss yon leaning tow'r, : : : : That saw the race of glory run, " That mark'd Ambition's setting sun, That shook old Empire's tow’ring pride, " That swept them down the floating tide.... Say, when these long-unfolding scenes appear, Streams down thy hoary cheek the pity-uarting

tear?

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Cast o'er yon trackless waste thy wand'ring eye:

Yon hill, whose gold-illumin'd brow,
Just trembling through the bending sky, .
O'erlooks the boundless wild below,

Once bore the branching wood

That o'er yon murmuring flood Hung wildly waving to the rustling gale; The naked heath, with moss o'ergrown, That hears the lone owl's nightly moan, Once bloom'd with Summer's copious store, Once rais'd the lawn-bespangling flow'r; Or heard some lover's plaintive lay, When, by pale Cynthia's silver ray, All wild he wander'd o'er the lonely dale, And taught the listning Moon the melancholy

; tale.

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Ye wilds where heaven-rapt Fancy roves !
Ye sky-crown’d hills, and solemn groves!

Ye low-brow'd vaults, ye gloomy cells!
Ye caves, where night-bred Silence dwells!
Ghosts that in yon lonely hall
Lightly glance along the wall;
Or beneath yon ivy'd tow'r,
At the silent midnight hour,
Stand array'd in spotless white,
And stain the dusky robe of Night;
Or with slow and solemn pauses roam
O'er the long-sounding hollow dome! ·
Say, 'mid yon desert solitary round,
When darkness wraps the boundless spheres,
Does ne'er some dismal, dying sound
On Night's dull serious ear rebound,
That mourns the ceaseless lapse of life-consuming

years?

II. 1.
O call th' inspiring glorious hour to view,

When Caledonia’s martial train
From yon steep rock's high-arching brow

Pour'd on the bitart-struck flying Dane!

When War's blood-tinctur'd spear
Hung o'er the trembling rear ;
When light-heeld Terror wing'd their headlong

flight:
Yon tow'rs then rung with wild alarms !
Yon desert gleam'd with shining arms!
While on the bleak hill's bright’ning spire
Bold Vict'ry flam’d, with eyes of fire;
Her limbs celestial robes infold,
Her wings were ting'd with spangling gold.
She spoke: her words infus’d resistless mighty
And warm'd the bounding heart, and rous'd the

soul of fight.

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But, ah! what hand the smiling prospect brings,

What voice recalls th’ expiring day?
See, darting swift on eagle-wings,
The glancing moments burst away!

So from some mountain's head,
In mantling gold array'd,

While bright-eyed Fancy stands in sweet surprise,

The vale where musing Quiet treads,
The flow'r-clad lawns, and bloomy meads,
Or streams where Zephyr loves to stray
Beneath the pale eve's twinkling ray ;
Or waving woods detain the sight-
When from the gloomy cave of night

Some cloudsweeps shadowy o'er the dusky skies, And wraps the flying scene, that fades, and

swims, and dies.

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Lo! rising from yon dreary tomb,
What spectres stalk across the gloom!
With haggard eyes, and visage pale,
And voice that moans with feeble wail!
O’er yon long-resounding plain
Slowly moves the solemn-train ;
Wailing wild with shrieks of woe
O’er the bones that rest below!

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