THE DAUGHTER.

35

"And then I swore that I would go,

In this distracting dream,

Some night, when none but Heaven could know, And here at once conclude my wo,

And plunge me in the stream.

'Twas midnight deep-o'er every breast-
O'er all but mine-refreshing rest
Had fallen as still as death;

I stole me gently to the door,
Unfixed the bolt, and to the shore,
From whence I should return no more,

66

Ran down the well-known path.

'Oh, 'twas a lovely summer's night,
The starry skies were clear,

The waning moon shone cold and bright,
And gilded, with her yellow light,

The stream that murmured near;
The blooming hawthorn waved its head,
And glow-worms, on a flowery bed
Beneath, their vigils kept;

And sweetly sung the nightingale,
And sweetly rung the answering vale;
And then my heart began to fail,
And down I sate and wept.

"On such a lovely night as this, Almighty God! I cried,

And shall I evermore dismiss

The hopes of thy eternal bless,

And plunge me in this tide?

It could not be; for then I thought
Of those who many a lesson taught,
And loved my steps to guide;

And though I bring them grief and shame,
Oh, I, perhaps, may soothe the same,
When they are old, and have no claim
On any friend beside.

"Now, strangers, now I needs must waive The sequel I could tell,

It makes me mad, it makes me rave,
And I must hide it in my grave
When they shall ring my knell.
O God! I hear the infant's wail
That turned a trembling mother pale
Whom never husband blessed;

And now I see the funeral meet,

And bear that child of shame, though sweet, To where the boys with wanton feet

Dance on its tender breast.

"And now I see two parents weep
Upon a cheerless hearth,

I see them to a sad bed creep,
And hear their lamentations deep

For her whom they gave birth.

They should have cursed me, (by my soul !) For pity for a crime so foul

Is ten times worse than scorn;

But God beheld, and he came down,

And took them-took them for his own

And left their sinful child alone,

Despised and forlorn.

THE DAUGHTER.

"But he, the vile deceiver, he
Awaits a dreadful doom-

Last night a spirit met with me,
As wandering by the faded tree,
Beneath the twilight gloom.
He told me that deluding wretch
Shall die of hunger in a ditch;
Yet, e'er his life depart,

The carion crow shall stay her flight,
And there upon his breast alight,
And there in his unhappy sight
Dig out his rotten heart.”

Poor wretch! that mournful tale again
Hath turned thy swimming head,

Go to thy seat until the rain

Fall cold upon thy burning brain,

And eve's chill dews be shed.
Go, mourner, to the old gray stone
Thou lovest most to sit upon,
Beneath the blasted tree;

And, oh, may each deluded heart
At thy appalling story start,
And hear as evil thoughts depart-
A monitor in thee!

37

THE LAMENT.

Her modest looks the cottage did adorn,

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

GOLDSMITH.

SHE was mine when the leaves of the forest were

green,

When the rose blossoms hung on the tree;

And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been,
And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.

But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade,
No human attention could save ;

And when the green leaves of the forest decayed,
The winds strewed them over her grave!

THE WOOER'S VISIT.

My native Scotland! how the youth is blest
To mark thy first star in the evening sky,
When the far curfew bids the weary rest,

And in his ear the milkmaid's wood-notes die !
Oh, then, unseen by every human eye,
Soon as the lingering daylight hath decayed,
Dear, dear to him o'er distant vales to hie,
While every head in midnight rest is laid,

To that endearing cot where dwells his favourite maid

THE WOOER'S VISIT.

39

Though he has laboured from the dawn of morn,
Beneath the summer sun's unclouded ray,
Till evening's dewdrops glistened on the thorn,
And wild flowers closed their petals with the day;
And though the cottage home be far away,
Where all the treasure of his bosom lies,

Oh, he must see her, though his raptured stay
Be short-like every joy beneath the skies-
And yet be at his task by morning's earliest rise.

Behold him wandering o'er the moonlight dales,
The only living thing that stirs abroad,
Tripping as lightly as the breathing gales

That fan his cheek upon the lonesome road,
Seldom by other human footsteps trode !
Even though no moon shed her conducting ray,

And light his night-path to that sweet abode, Angels will guide the lover's dreariest way, If but for her dear sake whose heart is pure as they.

And see him now upon the very hill,

From which, in breathless transport, he doth hail, At such an hour, so exquisitely still,

To him the sweetest, far the sweetest, vale That e'er was visited by mountain gale. And, oh, how fondly shall be hailed by him

The guiding lamp that never yet did fail

That very lamp which her dear hand doth trim,

To light his midnight way when moon and stars are

dim.