While, at the foot of some old tree,

As meditation sooths his mind,
Lull'd by the hum of wand'ring bee,

Or rippling stream, or whisp'ring wind,
His vagrant fancy still shall roam,
And lead bim to his native home.
Tho' Love a fragrant couch may weave,

And Fortune heap the festive board,
Still Memory oft would turn to grieve,

And Reason scorn the splendid hoard ;
While he, beneath the proudest dome,
Would languish for his native home.
To him the rushy roof is dear,

And sweetly calm the darkest glen;
While Pomp, and Pride, and Power appear,

At best, the glitt'ring plagues of men ;
Unsought by those that never roam
Forgetful of their native home.
Let me to summer shades retire,

With Meditation and the Muse !
Or, round the social winter fire,

The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse; Tho' winds may howl, and waters foam, I still shall bless my native home.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE ON

A SUMMER EVENING.

ANONYMOUS.

As now I muse along the winding shore,

And o'er the world of waters, smooth and wide, My thoughtful eye is cast; no wintry roar

Disturbs the calm expanse. Ah! here abide

Could I for ever. Pleasing to the eye

Is the soft bosom of the silver sea;
And soothing 'tis to hear the Zephyr's sigh,

With sorrow's tones in moving sympathy.
The distant oar with momentary gleam

Dashes the wave :- then silence seems to sleep

Awhile upon the calm breast of the deep. And now I pause, and turn, and mark the beam

Of the pale moon illume the battlement Of yonder ruin'd Castle ivy-crown'd, And nodding o'er the land. Ah! Time hath

rent Its dark-grey walls ; and, mould'ring on the

ground, Its antique columns lie. The pensive mind

Sighs o'er its fallen glories. Near the rock
That bares its rugged bosom to the wind,

I linger yet, and see the wheeling flock
Of screaming sea-gulls sweep the tranquil tide,
Or on the wave in placid triumph ride.
All now is fair and silent; summer's eve

Forbids the yelling dreary blast to blow.

Here let the thoughtful bosom overflow, And with meek mind the moral truth receive : I view the unruffled sea; but still conceal’d, What rocks and quicksands lurk beneath the

deep! So the world's smiles (by faithful time reveald)

Allure awhile, yet cause the wretch to weep. Soft now the gales that whisper; yet the breath

Of the loud hurricane will howl along Ere many months be past : so pain and death Close the smooth prospects of the world's gay throng.

C 3

LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE

IN ARGYLESHIRE.

CAMPBELL.

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the

bow'r, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell’d by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet, wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been :
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew
From each wandering sun-beam a lonely embrace;
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the

place, Where the flow'r of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,

But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and

bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,

Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind ;

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore !
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of

disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ;

To bear is to conquer our fate.

THE SEASONS.

MRS BARBAULD.

Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid,
In light-green robe with careless ease array'd ?
Her head is with a flow'ry garland crown'd,
And where she treads, fresh flow'rets spring around.
Her genial breath dissolves the gather'd snow;
Loos’d from their icy chains the rivers flow;
At sight of her the lambkins bound along,
And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song ;
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are

fillid,
And all prepare their mossy nests to build.
Ye Youths and Maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this smiling fair.

Who from the south is this with ling'ring tread
Advancing, in transparent garments clad ?
Her breath is hot and sultry; now she loves
To seek the inmost shelter of the groves ;

The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams,
To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs.
From her the brooks and wand'ring riv'lets fly;
At her approach their currents quickly dry.
Berries and ev'ry acid fruit she sips,
Tallay the fervour of her parching lips ;
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice,
She loves, which orchards plenteously produce.
The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears.
At her approach, O be it mine to lie
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply;
Or with her let me rove at early morn,
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;
Or at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of ev'ning mildly glows.
Ye Youths and Maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.

Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is his face ;
The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound:
His hair bath just begun to fall away,
· The auburn blending with the mournful gray.
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train.
The gun is heard; the trembling partridge bleeds;

The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
- Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare,
If ye can tell, ye Youths and Maidens fair.

Who is he from the north that speeds his way?
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array:
His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ;
With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims.