"TIs said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold North's unhallow'd ground,--
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.

And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone

Upon Helvellyn's side:

He loved- -the pretty Barbara died,
And thus he makes his moan:

Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid,
When thus his moan he made :

"Oh, move, thou cottage, from behind that oak !
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,

That in some other way yon smoke

May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart⚫ I look-the sky is empty space;

I know not what I trace;

But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

"O, what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be suppress'd? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,

It robs my heart of rest.

Thou thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

"Roll back, sweet ril!! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chain'd!

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That cannot be sustain'd;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb!

Be anything, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.

"Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers

(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale),

Thou one fair shrub-oh, shed thy flowers,

And stir not in the gale!

For thus to see thee nodding in the air,

To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,

Thus rise and thus descend,—

Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.'

The man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.

Ah gentle love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. (When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey from Iudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high Northern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanzas of the following Poem.)

BEFORE I see another day,

Oh let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the Northern gleams;
The stars were mingled with my dreams;
In sleep did I behold the skies,

I saw the crackling flashes drive;
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive.
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wish'd to live,

For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,

No pleasure now, and no desire.

Then here contented will I lie!

Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! ye might have dragg'd me on

Another day, a single one!

Too soon I yielded to despair;

Why did ye listen to my prayer?

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;

And oh how grievously I rue,

That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
My friends, when ye were gone away.

My child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!

Through his whole body something ran;
A most strange working did I see;
-As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretch'd his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
Oh wind, that o'er my head art flying
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send !
Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain,
I'll look upon your tents again.
-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore shall I fear to die?

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

IN distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet;
Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turn'd aside,
As if he wish'd himself to hide :
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I follow'd him, and said, "My friend,
What ails you-wherefore weep you so?"
"Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetch'd him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock.

"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran.

Though little given to care and thought.
Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

Of sheep I number'd a full score,
And every year increased my store.
"Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewc,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the mountain did they feed,
They throve, and we at home did thrive.
-This lusty lamb, of all my store,
Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we dic,
And perish all of poverty.

"Six children, sir! had I to feed ;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the parish ask'd relief.

They said I was a wealthy man ;
My sheep upon the mountain fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, what to the poor is duc?'

"I sold a sheep, as they had said,

And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me, it never did me good.

A woeful time it was for me,

To see the end of all my gains,

The pretty flock which I had rear'd
"With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.

"Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother

It was a vein that never stopp'd

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.

Till thirty were not left alive,

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

And I may say, that many a time
I wish'd they all were gone :

They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

"To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.

No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And crazily, and wearily,
I went my work about.

Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.

"Sir; 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily, with my growing store,
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I pray'd, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;

And every week and every day,
My flock it seem'd to melt away.

"They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe-
And them, at last, from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one;

And here it lies upon my arm,

Alas! and I have none;—

To-day I fetch'd it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."

A COMPLAINT.

THERE is a change-and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count !
Bless'd was I then, all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden WELL.

A well of love-it may be deep;
I trust it is,—and never dry;
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.

-Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor,