« AnteriorContinuar »
For many a wistful hour to pity dear,
* 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,
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,
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.
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,
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.
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