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THE HIGHLAND SHEPherd.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And Colley in my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
I hear no welcome sound,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Luckey scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh, no! sad and slow!
These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,
A snood of bonnie blue,

And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow!

Oh, no! sad and slow!
The time it winna pass:
The shadow of that weary thorn

Is tether'd on the grass.

O, now I see her on the way,

She's past the witches' knowe, She's climbing up the brownie's brae; My heart is in a lowe.

Oh, no! 'tis not so!

'Tis glamrie I ha'e seen!

The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

1763-1855.

[SAMUEL ROGERS born at Newington Green, near London, 1763; died, 1855. An eminent English poet, son of a London banker, in whose house of business he was placed after having received an efficient private education. At the age of twenty-three his first volume of poems was produced under the title of An Ode to Superstition and other Poems; his second volume The Pleasures of Memory was given to the world in 1792. Six years later he brought out a third volume, and in 1812, fourteen years after, he published a fragment entitled Columbus. Jaqueline was put forth in 1814. Human Life in 1819, and in 1822, the poet, then sixty years of age, produced the first part of his Italy. The complete edition of this latter poem was not published unti! 1836, having been illustrated under his own direction by Stothard, Turner, and Prout, at a cost of £10,000. Up to his ninety-first year he wrote an occasional piece, composed, like all his works, with laborious slowness, and polished line by line into elegance.]

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(If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him)

And bowed and left me; in his hollow hand

Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily Fled from all eyes; or, in a waking dream,

I might have sat as many a great man has,

And many as small, like him of Santillane,

Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.

Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius? Are those the distant turrets of Verona? And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque

Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?

Such questions hourly do I ask myself; And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed

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And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent-though like ours perchance

Busy and full of life and circumstance; Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue,

Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few; And, as the sun goes round -a sun not ours

While from her lap another Nature showers

Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire,

Think on themselves, within, without inquire;

At distance dwell on all that passes there,

All that their world reveals of good and fair;

And, as they wander, picturing things, like me,

Not as they are but as they ought to be, Trace out the journey through their little day,

And fondly dream an idle hour away

GINEVRA.

Moving as once they were instead of IF thou shouldst ever come by choice

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or chance

To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is pre

served

Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within the reverend tower, the Guir

landine)

Stop at the Palace near the Reggiogate,

Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; thro' their arched walks,

Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse

Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,

And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,

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She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him?

The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride,

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,

She was all gentleness, all gaiety; Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour;

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;

And, in the lustre of her youth, she

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