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I will not have the bell proclaim Gradual Approaches of Age.From Tales of the Hall.'

When those sad marriage rites begin,

And boys, without regard or shame,
Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,

Press the vile mouldering masses in.
When time began to play his usual tricks;
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,

Say not, it is beneath my care-
Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;

I cannot these cold truths allow; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,

These thoughts may not afflict me there, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.

But oh! they vex and tease me now! I rode or walked as I was wont before,

Raise not a turf, nor set a stone, But now the bounding spirit was no more ;

That man a maiden's grave may trace, A moderate pace would now my body heat ;

But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.

And let affection find the place.
I shewed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said : “The view is poor ; we need not climb.'

Oh! take me from a world I hate,
At a friend's mansion I began to dread

Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold; The cold neat parlour and the gay glazed bed :

And, in some pure and blessed state, At home I felt a more decided taste,

Let me my sister minds behold : And must have all things in my order placed.

From gross and sordid views refined,

Our heaven of spotless love to share,
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less--
My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess.

For only generous souls designed,

And not a man to meet us there.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,

Sketches of Autumn.-From the same.
And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose :
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;

It was a fair and mild autumnal sky,

And earth's ripe treasures met the admiring eye, The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; Small daily actions into habits grew,

As a rich beauty when the bloom is lost, And new dislike to forms and fashions new.

Appears with more magnificence and cost : I loved my trees in order to dispose ;

The wet and heavy grass, where feet had strayed, I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ;

Not yet erect, the wanderer's way betrayed;

Showers of the night had swelled the deepening rill, Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose.

The morning breeze had urged the quickening mill;

Assembled rooks had winged their seaward flight, Song of the Crazed Maiden.- From the same.

By the same passage to return at night,
Let me not have this gloomy view

While proudly o'er them hung the steady kite,
About my room, about my bed ;

Then turned them back, and left the noisy throng,
But morning roses, wet with dew,

Nor deigned to know them as he sailed along.
To cool my burning brow instead ;

Long yellow leaves, from osiers, strewed around,
As flowers that once in Eden grew,

Choked the dull stream, and hushed its feeble sound,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed,

While the dead foliage dropt from loftier trees,
And every day their sweets renew,

Our squire beheld not with his wonted ease ;
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.

But to his own reflections made reply,

And said aloud : Yes; doubtless we must die.'
O let the herbs I loved to rear

'We must,' said Richard ; 'and we would not live
Give to my sense their perfumed breath! To feel what dotage and decay will give ;
Let them be placed about my bier,

But we yet taste whatever we behold;
And grace the gloomy house of death.

The morn is lovely, though the air is cold :
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,

There is delicious quiet in this scene,
Where only Lucy's self shall know,

At once so rich, so varied, so serene ;
Where runs the pure pellucid rill

Sounds, too, delight us-each discordant tone
Upon its gravelly bed below;

Thus mingled please, that fail to please alone ;
There violets on the borders blow,

This hollow wind, this rustling of the brook,
And insects their soft light display,

The farm-yard noise, the woodman at yon oak-
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,

See, the axe falls !--now listen to the stroke:
The cold phosphoric fires decay.

That gun itself, that murders all this peace,
That is the grave to Lucy shewn ;

Adds to the charm, because it soon must cease.'
The soil a pure and silver sand;

Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,
The green cold moss above it grown,

Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf :
Unplucked of all but maiden hand.

The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods
In virgin earth, till then unturned,

Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers the
There let my maiden form be laid ;

floods :
Nor let my changed clay be spurned,

All green was vanished save of pine and yew,
Nor for new guest that bed be made.

That still displayed their melancholy hue ;
There will the lark, the lamb, in sport,

Save the green holly with its berries red,
In air, on earth, securely play :

And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.
And Lucy to my grave resort,
As innocent, but not so gay:

I will not have the churchyard ground
With bones all black and ugly grown,

There is a poetry of taste as well as of the pas-
To press my shivering body round,

sions, which can only be relished by the intelOr on my wasted limbs be thrown.

lectual classes, but is capable of imparting exquisite With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,

pleasure to those who have the key to its hidden In clammy beds of cold blue clay,

mysteries. It is somewhat akin to that delicate Through which the ringed earth-worms creep, appreciation of the fine arts, or of music, which in And on the shrouded bosom prey.

some men amounts to almost a new sense. SAMUEL

ges of

ROGERS, author of the Pleasures of Memory, was ment; and, till the failure of his mental powers, a a votary of this school of refinement. We have short time previous to his death, he retained that everywhere in his works a classic and graceful love of the beautiful which was in him a passion : beauty; no slovenly or obscure lines; fine cabinet when more than ninety, and a close prisoner to pictures of soft and mellow lustre ; and occasion- his chair, he still delighted to watch the changing ally trains of thought and association that awaken colours of the evening sky-to repeat pas or recall tender and heroic feelings. His diction his favourite poets, or to dwell on the merits of is clear and polished-finished with great care and the great painters whose works adorned his walls. scrupulous nicety: On the other hand, it must be By slow decay, and without any suffering, he died admitted that he has no forcible or original inven- in St James's Place, 18th December 1855. The tion, no deep pathos that thrills the soul, and no poet bequeathed three of his pictures-a Titian, a kindling energy that fires the imagination. In Guido, and a Giorgione—to the National Gallery. his shadowy poem of Columbus, he seems often to The Titian he considered the most valuable in verge on the sublime, but does not attain it. His his possession. It had been in the Orleans late works are his best. Parts of Human Life Gallery, and when that princely collection was possess deeper feeling than are to be found in the broken up, it was sold for four hundred guineas. Pleasures of Memory; and in the easy half-con- Mr Rogers, however, gave more than double that versational es of his Italy, there are delight- sum for it in 1828. ful glimpses of Italian life, and scenery, and old It was as a man of taste and letters, as a patron traditions. The poet was an accomplished traveller, of artists and authors, and as the friend of almost a lover of the fair and good, and a worshipper of every illustrious man that has graced our annals the classic glories of the past. Samuel Rogers for the last half-century and more, that Mr Rogers was born at Stoke Newington, one of the suburbs chiefly engaged the public attention. At his of London, on the 30th July 1763. His father celebrated breakfast-parties, persons of almost all was a banker in the City, and the poet, after a classes and pursuits were found. He made the careful private education, was introduced into the morning meal famous as a literary rallying-point; banking establishment, of which he continued a and during the London season there was scarcely partner up to the time of his death. He appeared a day in which from four to six persons were not as an author in 1786, the same year that witnessed assembled at the hospitable board in St James's the advent of Burns. The production of Rogers Place. There, discussion as to books or pictures, was a thin quarto of a few pages, an Ode to Super- anecdotes of the great of old, some racy saying of stition, with some other Poems. In 1792, he pro- Sheridan, Erskine, or Horne Tooke, some social duced the Pleasures of Memory; in 1798, his trait of Fox, some apt quotation or fine passage Epistle to a Friend, with other Poems; in 1812, read aloud, some incident of foreign travel Columbus; and in 1814, Jacqueline, a tale, pub- recounted-all flowed on without restraint, and lished in conjunction with Byron's Lara

charmed the hours till mid-day. A certain quaint

shrewdness and sarcasm, though rarely taking an Like morning brought by night.

offensive form, also characterised Rogers's conIn 1819, appeared Human Life, and in 1822, the versation. Many of his sayings circulated in first part of Italy, a descriptive poem in blank society and got into print. Some one said that verse. Rogers was a careful and fastidious writer. Gally Knight was getting deaf: 'It is from want In his Table Talk, published by Mr Dyce, the of practice,' remarked Rogers, Mr Knight being poet is represented as saying: 'I was engaged a great speaker and bad listener. The late Lord on the pleasures of Memory for nine years; on Dudley (Ward) had been free in his criticisms on Human Life for nearly the same space of time; the poet, who retaliated with that epigrammatic and Italy was not completed in less than sixteen couplet, which has never been surpassedyears. The collected works of Mr Rogers have

Ward has no heart, they say ; but I deny it; been published in various forms-one of them

He has a heart—he gets his speeches by it. containing vignette engravings from designs by Stothard and Turner, and forming no inconsider- | The poet, it is said, on one occasion tried to able trophy of British art. The poet was enabled extort a confession from his neighbour, Sir Philip to cultivate his favourite tastes, to enrich his house Francis, that he was the author of Junius, but in St James's Place with some of the finest and Francis gave a surly rebuff, and Rogers remarked rarest pictures, busts, books, gems, and other that if he was not Yunius, he was at least Brutus. articles of virtu, and to entertain his friends with We may remark that the poet's recipe for long a generous and unostentatious hospitality. His life was, 'temperance, the bath and Aesh brush, conversation was rich and various, abounding in and don't fret.' The felicity of his own lot he critical remarks, shrewd observation, and personal | has thus gracefully alluded to: anecdote. It is gratifying to add that his bounty

Nature denied him much, soothed and relieved the death-bed of Sheridan,

But gave him at his birth what most he values : and was exerted to a large extent annually in A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting, behalf of suffering or unfriended talent. "Genius For poetry, the language of the gods, languishing for want of patronage,' says Mr Dyce, For all things here, or grand or beautiful,

was sure to find in Mr Rogers a generous patron. A setting sun, a lake among the mountains, His purse was ever open to the distressed : of the The light of an ingenuous countenance, prompt assistance which he rendered in the hour And, what transcends them all, a noble action.

Italy. of need to various well-known individuals, there is ample record ; but of his many acts of kindness and charity to the wholly obscure, there is no

From the 'Pleasures of Memory.' memorial--at least on earth. The taste of Mr Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, Rogers had been cultivated to the utmost refine- With magic tints to harmonise the scene.


Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak

The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,

The village-common spotted white with sheep, And games and carols closed the busy day.

The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep ; Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more

All rouse Reflection's sadly pleasing train, With treasured tales and legendary lore.

And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows

So, when the mild Tupia dared explore To'chase the dreams of innocent repose.

Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here !

And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale What secret charms this silent spot endear?

That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail ; Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.

Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, And all his soul best loved—such tears he shed, First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;

Long watched the streaming signal from the mast; When nature pleased, for life itself was new,

Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, And the heart promised what the fancy drew. .

And fairy forests fringed the evening sky. Childhood's loved group revisits every scene,

So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawned the day, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green !

Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live !

Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. That faintly tipped the feathery surge with light : Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, But now the morn with orient hues portrayed To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ;

Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade : Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,

All touched the talisman's resistless spring, When nature fades and life forgets to charm;

And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing ! Thee would the Muse invoke !--to thee belong

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, The sage's precept and the poet's song.

As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. What softened views thy magic glass reveals,

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,

Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh ; Long on the wave reflected lustres play;

This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned,

For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind.

Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray,

When exile wore his blooming years away, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.

To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,

When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:

For this he roused her sanguinary laws; Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air

Glad to return, though hope could grant no more, When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,

And hence the charm historic scenes impart; Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems

Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale With golden visions and romantic dreams.

Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale; Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed

In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, The gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed ;

And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe,

'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he sought Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw;

Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought, Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ;

Sat at the helm himself. No meaner hand The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,

Steered through the waves, and when he struck the Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred,

land, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ;

Such in his soul the adour to explore, Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest Pelides-like, he leaped the first ashore. shade,

'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom : And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call,

So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.

On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,

When at his feet in honoured dust disclosed, And traced the line of life with searching view,

The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed. How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and And as he long in sweet delusion hung fears,

Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung; To learn the colour of my future years !

Who now but meets him musing, when he roves Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast;

His ruined Tusculan's romantic

groves ? This truth once known to bless is to be blest !

In Rome's great Forum, who but hears him roll We led the bending beggar on his way

His moral thunders o'er the subject soul? .... Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray

Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,

From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! And on his tale with mute attention dwelt :

Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, As in his scrip we dropt our little store,

And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! And sighed to think that little was no more,

Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; He breathed his prayer, ‘Long may such goodness The only pleasures we can call our own. live !'

Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, 'Twas all he gave—'twas all he had to give.

If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
The adventurous boy that asks his little share,

If but a beam of sober Reason play,
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
The dear abode of peace and privacy ;

Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?


These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Within that reverend tower, the GuirlandinePour round her path a stream of living light;

Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,

Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,

And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
From 'Human Life.

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
The lark has sung his carol in the sky,

Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby ; And lovers, such as in heroic song ;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound;

That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Venturing together on a tale of love,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, Read only part that day. A summer sun,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go,
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

Enter the house-prithee, forget it not A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail And look a while upon a picture there. The day again, and gladness fill the vale ;

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,

The very last of that illustrious race, Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ;

He who observes it, ere he passes on,
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine ; Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,

That he may call it up, when far away. 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,

Her lips half-open, and her finger up, ''Twas on her knees he sat so oft and smiled.'

As though she said. Beware! Her vest of gold And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 'Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees

Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ;
And violets scattered round; and old and young, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,

The overflowings of an innocent heartMoves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

It haunts me still

, though many a year has fled, And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour,

Like some wild melody! Another voice shall come from yonder tower ;

Alone it hangs When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, And weeping heard where only joy has been ;

An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, When, by his children borne, and from his door, But richly carved by Antony of Trent Slowly departing to return no more,

With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ; He rests in holy

earth with them that went before. A chest that came from Venice, and had held And such is human life ; so gliding on,

The ducal robes of some old ancestor. It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!

That by the way-it may be true or false — Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,

But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. As any that the wandering tribes require,

She was an only child ; from infancy
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire ; The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
As any sung of old, in hall or bower,

Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! ... That precious gift, what else remained to him ?

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared ; The young Ginevra was his all in life,
The child is born, by many a pang endeared,

Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry;

And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
O grant the cherub to her asking eye !

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
He comes—she clasps him. To her bosom pressed, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Just as she looks there in her bridal-dress,
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows! She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
How soon by his the glad discovery shews !

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,

But now the day was come, the day, the hour; What answering looks of sympathy and joy!

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.

Great was the joy ; but at the bridal-feast, Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung

When all sat down, the bride was wanting there. (That name most dear for ever on his tongue),

Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, As with soft accents round her neck he clings,

'Tis but to make a trial of our love !' And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart; 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.

But now, alas ! she was not to be found;
From ' Italy.'

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed

But that she was not! Weary of his life, If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance

Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith To Modena, where still religiously

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Among her ancient trophies is preserved

Orsini lived ; and long mightst thou have seen Bologna's bucket-in its chain it hangs

An old man wandering as in quest of something,


Something he could not find-he knew not what.

Where many an elf was playing round, When he was gone, the house remained a while

Who treads unshod his classic ground; Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

And speaks, his native rocks among, Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,

As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. When on an idle day, a day of search

Night fell, and dark and darker grew 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That narrow sea, that narrow sky, That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said

As o'er the glimmering waves we flew, By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. Why not remove it from its lurking-place?'

And now the grampus, half-descried, 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way

Black and huge above the tide ; It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

The cliffs and promontories there, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,

Front to front, and broad and bare ; A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold !

Each beyond each, with giant feet All else had perished-save a nuptial-ring,

Advancing as in haste to meet ; And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

The shattered fortress, whence the Dane Engraven with a name, the name of both,

Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain, Ginevra.' There then had she found a grave !

Tyrant of the drear domain ; Within that chest had she concealed herself,

All into midnight shadow sweep, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;

When day springs upward from the deep ! When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there,

Kindling the waters in its flight,
Fastened her down for ever!

The prow wakes splendour, and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,

Flashes in a sea of light;
An Italian Song:

Glad sign and sure, for now we hail
Dear is my little native vale,

Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ;
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ;

And bright indeed the path should be,
Close by my cot she tells her tale

That leads to friendship and to thee !
To every passing villager.

O blest retreat, and sacred too !
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,

Sacred as when the bell of prayer And shells his nuts at liberty.

Tolled duly on the desert air,

And crosses decked thy summits blue.
In orange groves and myrtle bowers,

Oft like some loved romantic tale,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

Oft shall my weary mind recall,
I charm the fairy.footed hours

Amid the hum and stir of men,
With my loved lute's romantic sound;

Thy beechen grove and water-fall,
Or crowns of living laurel weave

Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
For those that win the race at eve.

And her—the lady of the Glen!
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,

Pæstum.1- From ' Italy.'
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade;

They stand between the mountains and the sca; These simple joys that never fail,

Awful memorials, but of whom we know not.
Shall bind me to my native vale.

The seaman passing, gazes from the deck,
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,

Points to the work of magic, and moves on. Written in the Highlands of Scotland1812. Time was they stood along the crowded street,

Temples of gods, and on their ample steps Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone,

What various habits, various tongues beset Ben Lomond in his glory shone,

The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice ! When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze

Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; Bore me from thy silver sands,

And here the accuser stood, and there the accused, Thy kirkyard wall among the trees,

And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. Where, gray with age, the dial stands;

All silent now, as in the ages past, That dial so well known to me!

Trodden under foot, and mingled dust with dust. Though many a shadow it had shed,

How many centuries did the sun go round
Beloved sister, since with thee

From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,
The legend on the stone was read.
The fairy isles fled far away ;

While, by some spell rendered invisible,
That with its woods and uplands green,

Or, if approached, approached by him alone

Who saw as though he saw not, they remained Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,

As in the darkness of a sepulchre, And songs are heard at close of day;

Waiting the appointed time! All, all within That, too, the deer's wild covert fled,

Proclaims that nature had resumed her right,
And that, the asylum of the dead :

And taken to herself what man renounced ;
While as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told ;

No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,

But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, His arm that sell below his knee,

Their iron-brown'o'erspread with brightest verdure ! His cattle ford and mountain hold.

From my youth upward have I longed to tread

This classic ground; and am I here at last ?
Tarbet, thy shore I climbed at last;

Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And, thy shady region past,

And catching, as through some majestic grove, Upon another shore I stood,

Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, And looked upon another flood ;*

Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Great Ocean's self ! ('Tis he who fills That vast and awful depth of hills);

1 The temples of Pæstum are three in number, and have sur

vived, nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. i Signifying, in the Gaelic language, an isthmus.

Tradition is silent concerning them, but they must have existed 2 Loch Long.

now between two and three thousand years.

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