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Now spacious lands, and mountains tall,

Between us lie, and billows curl'd; And though one school contain'd us all,

Our tombs are scatter'd o'er the world.

The pleasures we in childhood felt

Are duller grown-less bold—less brightAnd all their fairer portions melt,

Like clouds, before the mental sight. The change is not in them; the mind

Is tainted now that then was pure; And such sweet bliss is left behind

As penitence can ne'er procure. Who hath not felt a nameless thrill,

When friends of earlier days are met ? And rising in the mind, at will,

Scenes that we never can forget ? Yet the afflicting thought recurs,

That all those golden days are o'er ; And sorrow in the bosom stirs,

To think they shall return no more. Behind us lies a lovely field,

Before us lies a dreary waste; We vainly wish its soil to yield

The sweets we could no longer taste ! Thence, sick’ning at the thought, we turn,

And to our griefs and follies fly; In solitude and silence mourn,

And, pond'ring, heave the pensive sigh!

SUCH THINGS WERE.

JOHN RANNIE.

Scenes of my youth! ye once were dear,

Though sadly I your charms survey ;

I once was wont to linger here,

From early dawn to closing day. Scenes of my youth! pale sorrow flings

A shade o'er all your beauties now, And robs the moments of their wings

That scatter pleasure as they flow. While, still to heighten ev'ry care, Reflection tells me-Such things were !

'Twas here a tender father strove

To keep my happiness in view; I smil'd beneath a mother's love,

That soft compassion ever knew : In them the virtues all combin'd,

On them I could with faith rely; To them my heart and soul were join'd

By mild Affection's primal tie; They smile in heav'n, exempt from care, Whilst I remember-Such things were !

'Twas here, where calm and tranquil rest

O’erpays the peasant for his toil, That first in blessing I was blest

With glowing Friendship's open smile. My friend, far distant doom'd to roam,

Now braves the fury of the seas; He fled his peaceful happy home,

His little fortune to increase; While bleeds afresh the wound of care, When I remember-Such things were !

'Twas here, ev'n in this gloomy grove,

I fondly gaz'd on Laura's charms, Who, blushing, own'd a mutual love,

And sigh’d responsive in my arms. Though hard the soul-conflicting strife,

Yet Fate, the cruel tyrant, bore

Far from my sight the charm of life,

The lovely maid whom I adore:
'Twould ease my soul of all my care,
Could I forget that-Such things were !

There first I saw the morn appear

Of guiltless Pleasure's shining day;
I met the dazzling brightness here,

Here mark'd the soft-declining ray.
Behold the skies, whose streaming light

Gave splendour to the parting sun,
Now lost in Sorrow's sable night,

And all their mingled glories gone!
Till Death, in pity, end my care,
I must remember-Such things were !

STANZAS WRITTEN IN A WOOD.

ANONYMOUS.

A SCENE like this can seldom fail to please,

Where friendly boughs a cooling shade diffuse ; Here on this turf let me recline at ease,

And hold sweet converse with the Sylvan Muse.

Her let me worship with obedience true,

Whom pastoral simplicities adorn,
When Eve puts on her sandals bath'd in dew,

When Earth receives the virgin kiss of Morn.

Oh ! let me frequent from the plains retire,

And to these calm sequester'd scenes repair, When sultry Phæbus, with meridian fire,

Scorches the panting bosom of the air.

Shew me, kind Druid, some pacífic dale,

From tumult lead my willing footsteps far, Nor let me hear the sadly-sounding tale

Of armies victim'd in the fields of war.

Perhaps, e'en now, while here the rustic lay

I tune, deep pond'ring over Nature's page, Thousands stand forth in terrible array,

And hosts with hosts in deeds of death engage.

Full many a tear will tender mothers shed,

In all the raving impotence of woe; And many a father, for his darling dead,

Will feel the pangs which none but fathers know.

Happy for me, that underneath this shade

I sit retir'd from all the busy throng, Where winding rills run murm'ring through the

glade, And listen to the blackbird's mellow song.

What tho’ fair Iris * hath not ting'd thy wing,

Nor sprinkled on thy breast her heav'nly dye ; Sweet harmonist ! I'd rather hear thee sing

Than all the noisy minstrels of the sky.

Why dances thus yon butterfly so gay,

And lonely here her idle flight pursues ? Go, spread thy colours to the noontide ray,

And bid the painter emulate thy hues.

Lost is the lustre of thy silky vest,

Here, where no multitudes its gloss descry; Hence, where spectators may observe thee best,

Nor hide thy beauties from the public eye.

Feigned to preside over the rainbow.

With awful gloom this solemn place is fill'd,

No splendid object strikes upon the sight, Save where the sun, the dark-brown scene to gild,

Draws his long-meas’ring line of radiant light.

High over-head is perch'd the clam'rous rook,

Croaking harsh notes from her discordant tongue; With secret pleasure she surveys the nook

Where she has built the cradle for her young.

Here let me muse, until my eye beholds

The radiant moon and twinkling stars appear, Until the last low tinkling from the folds

No longer vibrates on the list’ning ear.

Then homeward let me meditate my way,

Wrapt in the silence of ecstatic thought, Each glowing orb with wond'ring eye survey,

And praise the great Creator as I ought.

ODE ON CUPID.

From Anacreon.

MOORE.

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll ;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumb’ring all their cares away :
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bow'r,
And wak'd me with a piteous pray'r,
To save him from the midnight air !
“ And who art thou," I waking cry,
“ That bid'st my blissful visions fly?”!

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