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For many a wistful hour to pity dear,
A wanderer wove affections visions here,
Kiss'd the memorial form his bosom wore,
And look'd, till tears would let him look no more.
All that the heart at last might lean on-gone:
Yet madly did he languish-linger on :
Spent sighs to which no sympathy was given,
And pledg'd wild vows, unheard of all save heaven,
Went by the grave of love ; nor own'd despair,
Tho' not one flower of hope bloom'd palely there,
Her eye-bright herald of a better mind
Unkind, or only to the trifler kind
That eye, for which his own in tears was dim,
Glanc'd smiles on all, but would not smile on bim,

* These truly affecting lines, which we present to our readers, were als covered penciled on the shutter of a window in a room in Enniskillen, Ire land.

Whose heart alone, though broken, to conceal,
Could feel its fire-too deeply-finely feel
In wayward thrall, thus many a day went past,
But freedom came, his spirit rose at last,
Shook off the spell-march’d-minglid with the brave,
And sought a resting place in glory's grave.

CLXXXVII.

FAREWELL, O SWEET HOPE!

Farewell, oh sweet hope! I have wept thee in sadness,

Thy bright star illumin'd life’s gloomiest day: It rose on my soul like an angel of gladness,

And smild the dark clouds of misfortune away:

In youth every prospect by pleasure was bounded,

And joy was the portion that destiny gave; 'Twas pure as the lake by the mountains surrounded,

And warm as the sun-beam that danc'd on its wave.

Thy visions were transient as mists of the morning,

They shone on my sight like the rainbow of eve; And the first tear of sorrow proclaim'd the sad warning,

Those visions were sent to betray and deceive

Peace, mild as the dew-drop descending at even,

Protected my bosom from sorrow and care,
But return’d to her throne in the mansion of heaven,

When each object was stamp'd by the hand of despair.

O'er the flowers of happiness wither'd and blighted,

Fond memory lingers, and mourns their decay; For the blossoms thy warmth and thy splendour delighted,

Expir'd in the hour that beheld thy last ray.

CLXXXVIII.

THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD.

By the side of a mountain, o'ershadow'd with trees,

With thick clusters of vine, intermingl’d and wove, I behold my thatch'd cottage, dear, mansion of ease,

The seat of contentment, of friendship, and love.

Ich morn when I open the latch of my door,
M y heart tbrobs with rapture to hear the birds sing,
ad at night when the dance in the village is o'er,
On my pillow I strew the fresh roses of spring.

Then I hide in the forest from noon's scorching ray

While the torrent's deep murmurs re-echoing sound, Vhen the herds quit their pasture to quaff the clear stream,

And the flocks in the vale, lie extended around, muse-but my thoughts are contented and free,

I regret not the splendour of riches and pride, The delights of retirement are dearer to me

Than the proudest appendage to greatness alliede

( sing, and my song is the carol of Joy,

My cheek glows with health, like the wild rose in bloom, I dance, yet forget not, tho’ blythsome and gay,

That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb. Contented to live, yet not fearful to die,

With a conscience unspotted, I pass thro' life's scene, On the wings of delight every moment shall fily,

And the end of my days be resign'd and serene.

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Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see,

To me thou can’st never give pleasure again, My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea,

And thy streams are deep-ting'd with the blood of the slain.

+ The following notice of this song, occurs in a letter from Mr. Tannahill, to one of his particular friends, for whom it seems he had written other rerses to accompany the same beautiful and plaintive air, but which not altogether pleasing himself, he had substituted the above. “ According to promise," savs he. “ I send you two verses for the " Maids of Arrochar:" perhaps they are little better than the last. I believe the language is too weak for the subject; however, they possess the advantage over the others, of being founded on a real occurrence. The battle of Falkirk was Wallace's last, in which he was defeated with the loss of almost his whole army. I am sensible, that to give words suitable to the poignancy of his grief, on such a trying reverse of for. tune, would require all the fire and soul-melting energy of a Campbell or a Burns."

The modest terms in which our amiable author speaks of his verses, quite blunt the edge of criticism, and fully compensate for any lack of that deep and powerful feeling, that vigour and grandeur of conception which the loftiness of

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