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I love thee, Dee; thy banks and glades,
Tho' memory there my bosom tear,
Yet to that heart, oh! still how dear.
Ye shades that echo'd to his vows,
And saw me once supremely blest ;
And give a forlorn maiden rest;
No vengeful spirit bid him fear;
Yet to that heart he still was dear!
IS THERE A MAN WHOSE BREAST NE'ER
AIR-Is there a heart that never lov'd.
Is there a man whose breast ne'er glow'd
With Freedom's hallow'd flame,
In praises to her name;
Oh! bear him hence to Asia's plains,
Or Afric's desarts drear,
The humble hut to cheer.
Oh! there's a charm in Liberty!
A spell of heavenly birth,
And lift them far from earth :
At freedom's glorious shrine,
And deem his fate divine !
When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,
To blaze upon the western wave, When peace and love possess the grove,
And echo sleeps within its cave;
Led by love's soft endearing charms,
I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me
The lovely maid of Ormadale.
Her eyes outshine the star of night,
Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue, And pure as flower in summer shade,
Low bending in the pearly dew; Nor flower so fair and lovely pure,
Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail. As angel smile she aye will be
Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.
Let fortune soothe the heart of care,
And wealth to all its votaries give; Be mine the rosy smile of love,
And in its blissful arms to live: I would resign fair India's wealth,
And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower,
With thee, lov'd maid of Ormadales
AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY.
At the close of the day, in the sacred aisle,
By the light of the taper dim, Tis sweet to sit and list the while
To the notes of the vesper hymn.
When the silver moon, and the evening star,
Are through the cloister beaming, And the notes of the choir, though distant far,'
Like an angel's song are streaming.
Then every care from the tranquil breast,
By the sacred scene is driven, Each wild desire is hush'd to rest,
Each hope is turn'd to Heaven.
There would I wish to linger still,
Till my heart had hush'd her motion, Nor with less holy feelings thrill,
Than mild meek-cyed devotion.
From his booth on the hill the sad shepherd retires,
On his arm hung bis partner of joy and of woe;
Twas vain; for the past still return'd to her view,
By their side the dear pledges of love cheerful smild,
O lard cruel Lordling, thy mandate's severe,