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8.

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

9.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,
For then it beat but to adore thee.

10.

But, now, I seek for other joys,

To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,

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Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;

And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know, that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

1.

I WOULD I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

2.

Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me alongs the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar, I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

3.

Few are my years, and, yet, I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me;
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

4.

I lov'd-but those I lov'd, are gone,
Had friends-my early friends are fled,
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl,
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.

5.

How dull to hear the voice of those

Whom rank, or chance, whom wealth, or power, Have made; though neither friends or foes,

Associates of the festive hour;

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.

6.

And Woman! lovely Woman, thou!
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall.
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe;
To make that calm contentment mine,

Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.

7.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men,
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would' I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away,
and be at rest (1).

(1) PSALM 55, verse 6. -« And I said, Oh! that I had << wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at << rest. » This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

LINES

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL.

Sept. 2, 1807.

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone, I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I lov'd, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those, who scatter'd far, perchance, deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before;
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which, then, were mine;
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,

Invite the bosom to recall the

past,

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

་་

Take, while thou canst, a ling'ring, last farewell! » When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, And calin its cares and passions into rest; Oft, have I thought, 'twould sooth my dying hour, If aught may sooth, when Life resigns her power, To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom, where it lov'd to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die, And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;

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