Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,--
And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring the best beloved and best.
Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, throng'd with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glitter'd at evening like a starry sky;

And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sung one song that will not die.

O happy garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN MY POCKET COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF
INDOLENCE."

WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt one
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book;
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;

But go to-morrow-or belike to-day

Seek for him, he is fled; and whither none can say.

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,
And find elsewhere his business or delight;
Out of our valley's limits did he roam :
Full many a time, upon a stormy night,

His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
Oft did we see him driving full in view,

At mid-day, when the sun was shining bright;
What ill was on him, what he had to do,
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

Ah! piteous sight it was to see this man
When he came back to us, a wither'd flower,
Or, like a sinful creature, pale and wan.

Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,

Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;

And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
Whenever from our valley he withdrew;
For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, being here the long day through.
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:

Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong:
But verse was what he had been wedded to;

And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary wight along.

With him there often walk'd in friendly guise,

Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seem'd undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Depress'd by weight of musing phantasy;

Profound his forehead was, though not severe;

Yet some did think that he had little business here:

Sweet heaven forfend! his was a lawful right;

Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;

His limbs would toss about him with delight,

Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
Nor lack'd his calmer hours device or toy
To banish listlessness and irksome care;

He would have taught you how you might employ
Yourself; and many did to him repair,-

And, certes, not in vain; he had inventions rare.

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:
Long blades of grass, pluck'd round him as he lay,
Made to his ear attentively applied-

A pipe on which the wind would deftly play-
Glasses he had, that little things display,-
The beetle with his radiance manifold,

A mailed angel on a battle-day;

And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold;
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

He would entice that other man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery:

And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,

As far as love in such a place could be ;

There did they dwell-from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen :

If but a bird, to keep them company,

Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,

As pleased as if the same had been a maiden queen.

ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.“

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the Braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle.
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth!
For it may be proclaim'd with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face,
And what are Gordon's crosses
To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
Upon the verdant mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing,

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts

That through his brain are travelling,

And, starting up, to Bruce's heart,
He launch'd a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

And, stepping forth to meet the same,
Did with her body cover

The youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus from the heart of her true love
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain;
And fought, with rage incessant,
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,

This wretched knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing:
And, coming back across the wave,
Without a groan on Ellen's grave

The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events her related took place.

His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn HIC JACET!

STRANGE fits of passion I have known
And I will dare to tell,

But in the lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

When she I loved was strong and gay,

And like a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,
All over the wide lea:

My horse trudged on-and we drow nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach'd the orchard plot;
And, as we climb'd the hill,

Towards the roof of Lucy's cot

The moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And, all the while, my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised and never stopp'd:

When down behind the cottage roof.

At once the bright moon dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slids
Into a lover's head!-

"O mercy ""
! to myself I cried,

"If Lucy should be dead!"

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praiso,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sca;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

"Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I scem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd
The bowers where Lucy play'd;

And thine is too the last green field
That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

LOUISA.

I MET Louisa in the shade;

And, having seen that lovely maid,

Why should I fear to say

That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;
And down the rocks can leap along,
Like rivulets in May?

And she hath smiles to earth unknown;

Smiles, that with motion of their own

Do spread, and sink, and rise;

That come and go with endless play,
And ever, as they pass away,
Are hidden in her eyes.

She loves her fire, her cottage home;
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
In weather rough and bleak;

And, when against the wind she strains,

Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains

That sparkle on her cheek.

Take all that's mine "beneath the moon,"

If I with her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

When up she winds along the brook,

To hunt the waterfalls.