Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust,

Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life-all whisper of the past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove!
How oft, then purple evening tinged the west,
We watch the ehmet to her grainy nest;
Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the ahoicest of the spring!
How oft insoribed, with friendship's votive
rhyme,::

...

The bark now silver'd by the touch of time; Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summershade;

Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below

To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know;
When glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong
The sage's precept, and the poet's song.
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight
steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses
gray,

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here,
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions, and romantic dreams!

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The gypsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore,
Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;
Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of black-
est shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd;

And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes
and fears,

To learn the color of my future years!

Ah then what honest triumph flush'd my breast,

This truth once known-To bless is to be blest!

We led the bending beggar on his way,
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,)
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropp'd our little store,
And sigh'd to think that little was no more,
He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such good.
ness live!"

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell,

The church clock strikes! ye tender scenes,

farewell!

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace
The few fond lines that time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its
spring;

Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.
The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft as he turn'd the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him play'd,
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! instructors of my youth!
Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth;
Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;
In friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.
But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep,
When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind
With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined!
Ethereal power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far fled spirit of delight;
From whom that musing, melancholy mood
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest Memory, hail! O grant the grateful muse,
Her pencil dipp'd in nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject spirit to his cell,
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy
course,

And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; From reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. What different spheres to human bliss assign'd! What slow gradations in the scale of mind!

Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought! O mark the sleepless energies of thought!

Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighboring hill once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy; And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,

The village common spotted white with sheep, The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;

All rouse reflection's sadly pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of science, woo'd the gale
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm, yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leaty hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved, such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy forests fringed the evening sky.
So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering
height,

That faintly tip'd the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portray'd
Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade:
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the
wing!

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,

Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh;

This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Glad to return, though hope could grant no

more,

And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.
And hence the charm historic scenes impart:
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale
Glance through the gloom and whisper in the
gale,

In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.
'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom;
So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honor'd dust disclosed,
Th' immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?

In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: We gaze on every feature till it lives! Still the fond lover sees the absent maid; And the lost friend still lingers in his shade! Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep: Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace The father's features in his infant face. The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, Won by the raptures of a game at play; He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

What though the iron school of war erase Each milder virtue, and each softer grace; What though the fiend's torpedo touch arrest Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast: Still shall this active principle preside, And wake the tear to pity's self denied. Th' intrepid Swiss who guards a foreign shore, Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliff's no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild, Which on those cliff's his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,

And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm:
Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm;
Why great Navarre, when Franc and freedom
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. [bled,
When Dioclesian's self-corrected mind
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,
Say why we trace the labors of his spade,
In calm Salona's philosophic shade.
Say, when contentious Charles renounc'd a
throne,

To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu ?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast,
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd.

Undamp'd by time, the generous instinct grows.
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.
The social tribes its choicest influence hail:-
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,
The war-worn courser charges at the sound
And with young vigor wheels the pasture round.
Oft has the aged tenant of the vale
Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale;
Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed,
From sire to son with pious zeal bequeath'd.
When o'er the blasted heath the day declined,
And on the scath'd oak warr'd the winter wind;
When not a distant taper's twinkling ray
Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way;
When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear,
And the big rain-drops told the tempest near;
Then did his horse the homeward track descry,
The track that shunn'd his sad, inquiring eye;
And win each wavering purpose to relent,
With warmth so mild, so gently violent,
That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd,
And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind
Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form
Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm;
And who will first his fond impatience meet?
His faithful dog's already at his feet!

Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door,
Though all, that knew him, know his face no more,
His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,
With that mute eloquence which passes speech-
And see, the master but returns to die!
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth, [earth,
These, when to guard misfortune's sacred grave,
Will firm fidelity exult to brave.

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love?
Say, through the clouds what compass points
her flight?
[sight.
Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise,
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:-
'Tis vain! through ether's pathless wilds she goes,
And lights at last where all her cares repose.
Sweet bird! thy truth shall Haarlem's walls
And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. [attest,
When, with the silent energy of grief,
With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope relief,
Want with her babes round generous valor clung,
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue,
'Twas thine to animate her closing eye;
Alas! 'twas thine, perchance, the first to die,
Crush'd by her meagre hand, when welcomed
from the sky.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. [horn, O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew Of varied scents, that charm'd her as she flew? Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of being's glorious chain.

PART II.

SWEET Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail, To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to thee impart What charms in genius, and refines in art; Thee, in whose hand the keys of science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal lamp. [youth,

The friends of reason, and the guides of Whose language breathed the eloquence of truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, by thee to fame consign'd, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws; And fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From thee that bosom spring of rapture flows, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows. When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospects close,

Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads to trace Some social scene, some dear familiar face; And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper bell Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent cell Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; With rapt car drink th' enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.

Yet here, e'en here, with pleasures long resign'd,
Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind.
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul,
When the rude scourge assumes its base con-
trol;

And o'er futurity's blank page diffuse
The full reflection of her vivid hues.
'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew
The simple transports that with freedom flew ;
Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows,
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
And chant the rude, traditionary verse
With those, the loved companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.
Ah, why should virtue fear the frowns of fate?
Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create!
A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay;
A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest,
The home of happiness, an honest breast.
But most we mark the wonders of her reign,
When sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain.
When sober judgment has his throne resign'd
She smiles away the chaos of the mind;
And, as warm fancy's bright elysium glows,
From her each image springs, each color flows.
She is the sacred guest! th' immortal friend!
Oft seen o'er sleeping innocence to bend,
In that dead hour of night to silence given,
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven.
When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,
From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies;
Though far below the forkéd lightnings play,
And at his feet the thunder dies away,

Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep,
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,
With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees
His children sport beneath their native trees,
And bends to hear their cherub voices call,
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

But can her smile with gloomy madness dwell?
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell?
Each fiery flight on frenzy's wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam sup-
plies,

There in the dust the wreck of genius lies!
He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!
But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of fame,
The spectre poverty unnerved his frame.
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore
And hope's soft energies were felt no more.
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art!
From the rude wall what bright ideas start!
E'en now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe!
And whence these scenes, these images, declare :
Whence but from her who triumphs o'er despair?
Awake, arise! with grateful fervour fraught,
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought.
He, who, through nature's various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultless line portrays;
Whose mind, profaned by no unhallow'd guest,
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best;
May range, at will, bright fancy's golden clime,
Or, musing, mount where science sits sublime,
Or wake the spirit of departed time.

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews!
So rich the cuiture, though so small the space,
Its scanty limits, he forgets to trace.
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky,
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh!
The weary waste, that lengthen'd as he ran,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!

Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,
By truth illumined, and by taste refined?

Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile ;

And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile?
Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich—go,
And own what raptures from reflection flow.

Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave!
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave!
Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail!
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail.
Long have ye heard the narratives of age,
The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage;
Long have ye known reflection's genial ray
Gild the calm close of valour's various day.
Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece,
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease:
A softer tone of light pervades the whole,
And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul.
Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales pu"-
sued

Each mountain scene, majestically rude;
To note the sweet simplicity of life,
Far from the din of folly's idle strife;
Nor there a while, with lifted eye, revered
That modest stone which pious Pembroke rear'd;
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour;
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place,
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ?

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride,
O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sigh'd.
Thus, through the gloom of Shenstone's fairy grove,
Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love.

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower Awes us less deeply in its morning hour, Than when the shades of time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall; The tender images we love to trace, Steal from each year a melancholy grace! And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, The stranger greets each native of his isle ; So scenes of life, when present and confest, Stamp but their bolder features on the breast; Yet not an image, when remotely view'd, However trivial, and however rude,

ear,

Still nerved for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue
Some long-loved image vanish'd from her view;
Dart through the deep recesses of the past,
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.
So through the grove th' impatient mother flies,
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries;
Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose,
Long on the woodmoss stretch'd in sweet repose.
Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind;
Danger and death a dread delight inspire,
And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire,
When richly bronzed by many a summer sun,
He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were
done.

With every claim of close affinity!

But these pure joys the world can never know
In gentler climes their silver currents flow.
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day,
When the hush'd grove has sung his parting lay;
When pensive twilight, in her dusky car,
Comes slowly on to meet the evening star;
Above, below, aërial murmurs swell,

From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell'
A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light,.
Stealing soft music on the ear of night.
So oft the finer movements of the soul,
That shun the sphere of pleasure's gay control,
In the still shades of calm seclusion rise,
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies!
Once, and domestic annals tell the time
(Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime)
When nature smiled, and o'er the landscepe threw
Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue,

A blithe and blooming forester explored
Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored;
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood,
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood;
Nor shunn'd the track, unknown to human tread,
That downward to the night of caverns led;
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed.

High on exulting wind the heath-cock rose
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows;
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar,
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar;
And through the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky,
Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled eye.
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,
Through morn's gray mist its melting colours gave;
And o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove.
Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew,
From rock to rock the young adventurer flew ;
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore,
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore.
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veil'd the sky,
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye;
Save when a bright and momentary gleam
Glanced from the white foam of some shelter'd

stream.

O'er the still lake the bell of evening toll'd,
And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold;
And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd,
When, hark! a voice sung sweetly through the
shade:

It ceased-yet still in Florio's fancy sung,
Still on each note his captive spirit hung;
Till o'er the mead a cool, sequester'd grot
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.
A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor,
And on the front these simple lines it bore:

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
In this secret, shadowy cell
Musing Memory loves to dwell,
With her sister Solitude.

Far from the busy world she flies,
To taste that peace the world denies.
Entranced she sits; from youth to age,
Reviewing life's eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,
The little lines of yesterday.

Florio had gain'd a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the genius of this still retreat!
Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel face?
Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch, impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world's contagious climate die?

She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there; Her pastoral beauty and her artless air Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul! In every nerve he felt her blest control! What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky,. Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet? Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet! Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Till through a vista's moonlight-checker'd shade,

Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed,
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed,:
An antique mansion burst in awful state,
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate.
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green;
And, slow advancing, hail'd him as his guest,
Won by the honest warmth his looks express'd.
He wore the rustic manners of a 'squire ;
Age had not quench'd one spark of manly fire;
But giant gout had bound him in her chain,
And his heart panted for the chase in vain.

Yet here remembrance, sweetly soothing power Wing'd with delight confinement's lingering hour. The fox's brush still emulous to wear,

He scour❜d the country in his elbow chair;
And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound
That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round.

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined,
His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind:
And each, with glowing energy portray'd,
The far-famed triumphs of the field display'd;
Usurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall,
And chased a line of heroes from the wall.
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew,
And many a smile and many a story drew!
High o'er the hearth his forest trophies hung,
And their fantastic branches wildly flung.
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there!
These dash'd the wave, those fann'd the mountain
air.

All, as they frown'd, unwritten records bore
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong?-His only child,
His darling Julia, on the stranger smiled.
Her little arts a fretful sire to please,
Her gentle gayety, and native ease

Had won his soul; and rapturous fancy shed
Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red.

But ah! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision

fled!

When evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue,
And her deep shades irregularly threw ;
Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove,
Down by Saint Herbert's consecrated grove;
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite
Amused the fisher's solitary night:
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed,
A sacred calm through the brown foliage breathed.
The wild deer, starting through the silent glade,
With fearful gaze their various course survey'd.
High hung in air the hoary goat reclined,
His streaming beard the sport of every wind;
And, while the coot her jet wing loved to lave,
Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave;
The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest,
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant nest.

And now the moon had dimm'd with dewy ray

The few fine flushes of departing day.
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung,
And her broad lights on every mountain flung;
When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew,
And to the surge consign'd the little crew.
All, all escaped-but ere the lover bore
His faint and faded Julia to the shore,