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Sweet roses grace the thorny way,

Along this vale of sorrow : The flowers that shed their leaves to-day,

Shall bloom again to-morrow : How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth!

On halcyon wings our moments pass,

Life's cruel cares beguiling : Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,

In gay good humour smiling :
With ermine beard and forelock grey,

His reverend front adorning,
He looks like winter turn'd to May,

Night soften'd into morning!
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth!

From these delightful fountains flow

Ambiosial rills of pleasure:
Can man desire, can heaven bestow,

A more resplendent treasure ?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,

We'll form a constellation,
Where every star, with modest light,

Shall gild his proper station :
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth:

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SCENA.-Alfred in the Neatherd's Cot.

Time, Midnight ;--Starting from a disturbed Slomber.


Stay, glorious pageant, stay! it lies ! it fades !
'Tis darkness all-
Poor rushen mat, art thou my regal chair ?
Imperial robe, ah ! chang'd to herdsman's weeds;
Of all his heritage not so much earth
As build's a grave, remains to fallen Alfred
Oh England ! Mother dear the Danish sword
Hath pierc'd thy heart. Thou bleed'st to death.


Oh England ! my mother, thy zone thou entwinest,

Thy robe flows dishevell’d-thy locks fall unbound On liberty's lap--thy pale head thou reclinest,

And sadly, yet smilingly, points to thy wound. Come away, is thy song, come away to thy grave, In death there's a country left free for the brate,

(The blast of a trumpet is heard, followed by a March.)


What uproar frights the silent watchful stars ?
Hark! bark! the slaught'ring march of the impious Danes
Great God of battles, be thou my guide

Come away, is thy song, come away to thy grave,
In death there's a country left free for the brave.


Bear my standard to the war,
Blow my clarion wide and far.
Where the bossy target rings,
Where the flighty arrow sings,
Where the sword and fąulchion flash,
Where the helm and buckler crash
And the ravens scream in air
Watching man his feast prepare;
There be Alfred's standard found,
There be heard his clarion's sound.


Great God of battles, bless my single arm,
Be thou my guide-my watchword, LIBERTY †.

+ We are informed by the gentleman who favoured us with this beautiful piece of poetry, that it was written by W. Dimond, Esq; and sung by the celebrated Mr. Braham at the Edinburgh Musical Festival 1813, to music composed expressly for him by Rauzzine.



Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's remains;

All under the willow he lies;
There, by the pale moonlight, Maria complains,

And sad to the night breeże she

“Oh! it is not the dew-drop adorns the wild rose,

On the briar-bound grave of my dear * : “ I could not but weep, while I pray'd his repose,

a And the bright trembling drop is a tear."

*" We were much pleased" says a Pedestrian Tourist, “ with the neat appearance of the church-yards belonging to some of the more remote villages in the south of England :-the graves were firmly laced with a kind of basket-work of briars, brambles, &s, many of these had taken root, and being kept in order, cast even a cheerful look over the silent mansions of the dead, and evinced, on the part of the survivors, an affectionate regard for the memory of departed relatives ; which in too many instances we find cease the moment they are consigned to the “dark and narrow house."

The ingenious, but unfortunate, Chatterton, who suffered nothing to escape his penetrating eye, has noticed this custom in the Minstrel's Song in his tragical interlude « Ella".

“ Wythe mie honds I'lle dente the brieres,
u Rounde his halie corse to gre."

See page 233 of this work.




We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cozie den, on yon burn side,

Tho' the broomy knowes be green,

Yet there we may be seen, But we'll meet-we'll meet, at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bow'r, on yon burn side,
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flow'r, on yon burn side,

There the busy prying eye,

Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, -
Those fairy-scenes are no for you, by yon burn side,

There fancy smooths her theme,

By the sweetly murm’ring stream, And the rock-lodg’d echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

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