There stands the tottering tower I climbed,
And won the falcon's brood;

There flows the stream I've trysted through,
When it was wild in flood!
There is the fairy glen-the pools
I mused in youth among,

The very nook where first I poured
Forth inconsidered song:

And stood with gladness in my heart,
And bright hope on my brow-
Ah! I had other visions then

Than I have visions now.

I went unto my native vale-
Alas! what did I see?

At every door strange faces, where
Glad looks once welcomed me :
The sunshine faded on the hills,
The music left the brooks,
The song of its unnumbered larks

Was as the voice of rooks;
The plough had been in all my haunts,
The axe had touched the grove,
And death had followed-there was nought
Remained for me to love.

My native vale, farewell! farewell!

My father, on thy hearth

The light's extinguished-and thy roof

No longer rings with mirth;

There sits a stranger on thy chair;

And they are dead and gone

Who charmed my early life-all-all
Sleep 'neath the church-yard stone:
There's nought moves save yon round red moon,
Nought lives, but that pure river
That lived when I was young-all-all
Are gone-and gone for ever.

Keir with thy pasture mountains green,
Drumlanrig with thy towers;
Carse with thy lily banks and braes,
And Blackwood with thy bowers;
And fair Dalswinton with thy walks
Of scented thorn and holly,

Where some had toiled the day, and shared
The night 'tween sense and folly.
Farewell, farewell, your flowers will glad
The bird, and feed the bee,

And charm ten thousand hearts--although
No more they'll-gladden me.

I stood within my native vale,
Fast by the river brink,

And saw the long and yellow corn,
'Neath shining sickles sink-

I heard the fair-haired maidens wake
Songs of the latter day;

And joyed to see the bendsmen smile,
Albeit their locks were grey;

I thought on mine own musings-when
Men shook their tresses hoary,

And said, "alas!" and named my name,
"Thou art no heir of glory!"

FLOWERS FOR MARY'S GARLAND.

ANONYMOUS.

I WILL not call thee fair, Mary,
Although thine eyes be bright,
Nor wreathe my spirit in thine hair,
Though it be dark as night:

I will not say thy song is sweet
As breath of birds in May,
Or music folded round thy feet,

Dear Mary Gray!

I will not hurry from the throng
To lean upon thy chair;

I hear the beauty of thy song,
I see that thou art fair;

Why need I pour my hymn around

The pillow of thy rest?

I think that thy heart's bird hath found

A greener nest!

I have no bloom of laughing youth

My offering to be;

I only bring my earnest truth,

My glowing heart to thee.

The wine of tears is in my cup

Turn not thy face away ;

Thy smile will make me drink it up,

Sweet Mary Gray!

VERSES

TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.

MOORE.

ALL as he left it!-even the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then

Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breath'd their last.

All powerless now-like talisman,

Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

Yet though, alas, the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on th' enchanter's broken wand,
Each miracle it work'd arise

Before him, in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;

Th' unshrinking Truth, that lets her light

Through Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along,

O'er scenes which angels weep to see,Where Truth herself half veils the wrong, In pity of the misery.

True bard! and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,

When stooping from their starry place,
They're children, near, though gods, afar.

How freshly doth my mind recal,

'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all,

Floats in the wake of memory;

When he the poet,* doubly grac'd,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain ;

Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius though it be,
But half the treasures of a mind
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:

Friend of long years! of friendship tried Through many a bright and dark event;

* Rogers.