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Fair was that face as break of dawn,
And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With until a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercomc timidity!
Nature has breath'd into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace;
A spirit that lies never still,
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will.
As. sometimes o'er a sleeping lake
Soft airs a gentle rippling make,
Till, ere we know, the. strangers fly,
And water blends again with sky.
Oh! happy sprite! didst thou but know
•MTTIN OR THE BANKS OF W.t ST WATER,
There is a lake hid far among the hills, That raves around the throne of solitude, 'it fed by gentle streams, or playful rills, Bat headlong cataract and rushing flood. There gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood, No ipot of sunshine lights her sullen side; For horror shaped the wild in wrathful mood, And o'er the tempest heaved the mountain's
pride. "thou art one, in dark presumption blind, Who mainly deemst no spirit like to thine, That lofty genius deifies thy mind, r all prostrate here at Nature's stormy shrine, •"d as the thunderous scene disturbs thy
heart, hilt thy changed eye, and own how low
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OP WASTWATER,
Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms,
earth, And, clothed in glory,through a silent shower The mighty Sun comes forth, a godlike birth; \\ bile,"in ;itli his loving eye, the gentle Lake Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!
WRITTEN AT Minis I GUT. ON HELM-CRA6.
Go up among the mountains, when the storm Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood, When the soul loves tumultuous solitude, And through the haunted air each giant form Of swinging pine,black rock or ghostly cloud, That veils some fearful cataract tumbling
loud, Seems to thy breathless heart with life
embucd. 'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art
alone! The mind exists, thinks, trembles through
the ear, The memory of the human world is gone, And time and space seem living only here. Oh! worship thou the visions then made
known, While sable glooms round Nature's temple
roll. And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies. And tells to man his glorious destinies.
WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TBMMEST.
It was n dreadful day, when late I pass'd O'er tliy dim vastness, Skidd Aw!—Mist and
cloud Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing; blast To thee made darling music, wild and loud, Thou Mountain-Monarch! Kain in torrents
play'd, As when at sea a wave is borne to heaven, A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd Of reeling ship with downward wrath is
driven. I could have thought that every living form Had fled, or perished in that savage storm, So desolate the day. To me were given Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said: Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul Man's chartcr'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?
I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad,
Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky,
Rocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.
How strange, methought, I should have lived so near.
Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!
Strange! say not so—hid from the world and thee,.
Though in the midst of life their spirits move.
Thousands enjoy in holy liberty
The silent Eden of unenvied Love!
The Lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand
glee, The first faint touch unable to withstand, We melt at once into Eternity. O Thou who weighst the waters in thine
hand, My awe-struck Spirit puts her trust in Thee.
EXTRACTS FROM THE CITY OF THE PLAGUK
Act I. Scenb I.
Old Man. Three months ago
"Within my soul I heard a mighty sound
dead, Queen of the world! I ask'd my awe-struck
heart. And not one breath of life amid the silence Uisturb'd the empire of mortality. Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, The fountain of the river that made glad
The City of the Isle!
Sin brought the judgment: it was terrible.
Or cleanse, but, whirlwind-like, to sweep
away The tents of princes and the men of war. Know ye what you will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk, through long, long
streets, All standing silent as a midnight-chnrrh. You will hear nothing but the brown red grass Hustling beneath your feet; the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you; the small
voice • Of that vain bauble, idly cnuntiag time. Will speak a solemn Innguage in the dearrtLook up to heaven, and there the sultry
clouds, Still threatening thunder, lower with grim
delight. As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there. Darkening the city with the shadows of death.
And let the Pest's triumphal chariot
Of earthly kings! A miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along
By shrank steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of
horror. Would you look in? Gray hairs and golden
tresses, Wan shrivell'U cheeks that have not smiled
for years, And many a rosy visage smiling still; Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary
wrapt, With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone; And youthful frames, august and beautiful, In spite of mortal pangs,—there lie they nil Kmbracrd in ghnstliness! But look not long, For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there, The well-known cheek of some beloved
friend Will meet thy gaze, or some small snowwhite hand, Bright with the ring that holds her lever's
Act I. Scene IV.
The street—A long table covered with glasses. — A party of young men and women carousing.
Young Man, I rise to give, most noble President, The memory of a man well known to all, Who by keen jest, and merry anecdote, Sharp repartee, and humorous remark Most biting in its solemn gravity, Mnchcheer'd our out-door table, and dispell'd The fogs which this rude visitor the Plague Oft breathed across the brightest intellect. Bnt two days past, our ready laughter chased Hit various stories; and it cannot be That we have in our gamesome revelries Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair
stands Empty at your right hand—as if expecting That jovial wassailer—but he is gone Into cold narrow quarters. Well, I deem The grave did never silence with its dust A tongue more eloquent; hut since 'tis so, And store of boon companions yet survive, There is no reason to be sorrowful; Therefore let us drink unto his memory With acclamation, and a merry peal Saeh as in life he loved.
Master of Revels. 'Tis the first death Hath been amongst us, therefore let us drink Hi« memory in silence.
t'-owig Man. Be it so.
[They all rise, and drink their glasses in silence.
Master of Revels. Sweet Mary Gray! Thou hast a silver voice,
And wildly to thy native melodies
Canst tune its flute-like breath—sing us a
song, And let it he, even 'mid our merriment, Most sad, most slow, that when its music dies, We may nddress ourselves to revelry, More passionate from the calm,as men leap up To this world's business from some heavenly
MARY GRAY'S SONG.
I walk'd by myscl' ower the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was drest; But the sang b' the bonny burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a lost simmer's nest.
I Iook'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I sec On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning. Hanging white ower the green o' its sheltering tree.
By the outside I ken'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; O loud craw'd the cock whnrc was nanc to awaken, And the wild-raven croak'd on the scat by the door!
Sic silence — sic Ionesomeness, oh, were bewildering! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children Dancing on to the school-house just waken'd frat; sleep.
I pass'd by the school-house—when strangers were coining, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.
I pass'd by the pool where the buses at daw'ing Used to blench their white garments wi' daffin and din;
Bat the foam in the silence o' natnre was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.
I gaed into a small town—when sick o' my roaming— Whare ance play'd the viol, the tahor, and flute; Twm the hour loved hy Lahour, the saft smiling gloaming, Yet the green round the Cross-stane was empty and inutc.
To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!
Sweed Denhol in! not thus, when I lived in thy bosom, Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sac weary that love would nae rouse him, And Grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his check.
Sic thoughts wet my cen— as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent f and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.
The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping, I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Ower a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And Heaven in beauty came down on the earth.
The morning smiled on — but nae kirk-hell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm-tune Mas singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.
I look'd ower the quiet o' Death's empty dwelling. The lav'rock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful seem-.
And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Ower the kirk-yard o' Oenholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast <>' it* mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand «" its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting ower forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.
But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices. And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken! and naewherc hear sweet human voices! When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
Master of Revels. Wre thank thee, sweet one! for thy mournful song. It seems, in the olden time, this very Planar Visited thy hills nnd valleys, and the voice Of lamentation wnil'd along the streams That now flow on through their wild paradise, Murmuring their songs of joy. AU that
survive In memory of that melancholy year, When died so many brave and beautiful. Are some sweet mournful airs, some shepherd's lay Most touching in simplicity, and none Fitter to make one sad amid his mirth Than the tune yet faintly singing through our souls. Mary Gray. O! that I ne'er had Subs; it but at home Unto my aged parents! to whose ear Their Mary's tones were always musiral I hear my own self singing o'er the nsor, Beside my native cottage,—most unlike The voice which Edward Walsingham has
praised, It is the angel-voice of innocence, 2d Woman. I thought this cant were oat of fashion now. But it is well; there are some simple Mibk Even yet, who melt at a frail maiden's Inn And give her credit for sincerity. She thinks her eyes quite killing while ahr weeps.