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Upon Hi'h ell vn\ side:

He loved—the pretty Barbara died,

And thus he makes his moan:

Three years had Barbara in her grave been

laid When thus his moan he made:

"Oh move, thou Cottage, from behind that

oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens

depart: I look—the sky is empty spnee; I know not what I trace; But, when I cease to look, my hand is on

my heart.

0! what a weight is in these shades! Ye

leaves, When will that dying murmur be supprcst? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud

and free, Into yon row of willows flit, I'pon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-hounds,

And there for ever be thy waters chained!

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That rannot be sustained;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough

Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb !—

Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly

towers, (tven like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air,— Jn sec thy arch thus stretch and bend, ■ Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs rac, till the sight is more than I

can bear."

Tberoan who makes this feverish complaint
It one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron majl.
Ah gentle Love! If ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours forme, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
«"thin the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.

A COMPLAINT.

Thkhk is a change—and I nm poor;
Your Love hath been, nor long ago,
A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And_ flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Bless'd was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell 1
A comfortlcs and hidden If ell.

A Well of love—it may be deep—

I trust it is, and never dry:

What matter? if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity.

—Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

RUTH.

When Ruth was left half desolate
Her father took another mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds of wind and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green.
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;

Herself her own delight:

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,

She passed her time; and in this way

Grew up to woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore

A military casque he wore

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought lliem from the Cherokee*;

The leathers nodded in the breeze,

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
Ah no! he spake the English tongue
And bore a Soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of Genius on hi* cheek

In finest tones the Youth could speak.

—While he was yet a boy

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run,

Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess

The pnnther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he;

And, when he chose to sport and piny

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought;

And with him many, tales he brought

Of pleasure and of fear;

Such tales as, told to any Maid

By such a Youth, in the green shade,

Were perilous to hear.

He told of Girls, a happy rout!

Who quit their fold with dance and shout.

Their pleasant Indian Town,'

To gather strawberries all day long;

Returning with a choral snng

When day-light is gone down.

He spake of plants divine and strange
That every hour their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues!
With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening-dews.

He told of the Magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The Cypress and her spire;
Of flowers thnt with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.

The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening-clouds.

And then he said: How sweet it were

A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade.

Still wandering with an easy mind

To build a household-fire, and find

A home in every glade!

What days and what sweet years! Ah me!

Our life were life indeed, with thee

So passed in quiet bliss!

And all the while, said he, to know

That we were in a world of woe,

On such an earth as this!

And then he sometimes interwove
Dear thoughts about a father's lovr.
For there, said he, are spun

Around the heart such tender ties.
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.

Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me

My helpmate in the woods to be;

Our shed at night to rear;

Or run, my own adopted Bride,

A sylvan Huntress at my side.

And drive the flying deer.

Beloved Ruth!—No more he said.
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed
A solitary tear:

She thought again—and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

And now, as fitting is and right.

We in the Church our faith will plight.

A Husband and a Wife.

Even so they did; and I may say

That to sweet Ruth that -happy day

Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink.
Delighted all the while to think
That, on those lonesome floods.
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told.
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And with his dancing crest
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.

The wind, the tempest roaring high.

The tumult of a tropic sky,

Might well be dangerous food

For him, a Youth to whom was given

So much of earth—so much of heaven.

And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those Climes he found

Irregular in sight or sound

Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seemed allied

To his own powers, and justified

Th% workings of his heart.

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought
The beauteous forms of nature wrought.
Fair trees and lovely flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits. I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately needs must have their sharr
Of noble sentiment.

Bnt ill he lived, much evil Mv
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life wan known;
Deliberately and undeceived
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them buck his own.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:
What could he less than love a Mnid
Whose heart with so much nature played 1
So kind and so forlorn!

But now the pleasant dream was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one, —
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared.
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the sea-shore;
'But, when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth!—Such pains she had

That she in half a year was mad

And in a prison housed;

And there, exulting in her wrongs,

Among the music of her songs

She fearfully caroused.

Vet sometimes milder hours she knew
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May;
They all were with her in her cell;
And a wild brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain
There came a respite to her pain,
She from her prison fled;
Bat of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
R*u permanent and free;
And, coming to the banks of Tone.
There did she rest; and dwell alone
I nder the greenwood-tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools

Thnt shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools.

And airs that gently stir

The vernal leaves, she loved them still,

Nor ever taxed them with the ill

Which had been done to her.

A barn her winter-bed supplies;

But till the warmth of summer-skies

And summer-days is gone,

(And all do in this tale agree)

She sleeps beneath the greenwood-tree,

And other home hath none.

An innocent life, yet far astray!

And Ruth will, long before her day,

Be broken down and old.

Sore aches she needs must have! but less

Of mind, than body's wretchedness,

From damp,, and rain, and cold.

If she is pressed by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place.
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock-stalk,
At evening in his homeward-walk
The Quantock Woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild—
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,

Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould

Thy corpse shall buried be;

For thee a funeral bell shall ring,

And all the congregation sing

A Christian psalm for thee.

THE AFFLICTION

OF MARGARET—OF—

Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas, to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despair'd, and have believ'd.
And he for evermore beguil'd;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,

An object beauteous to behold;

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:

If things ensued that wanted grace,

As hath been said, they were not base;

And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
M hen full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest scream,
Heard by his Mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess ■
Years to a Mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect mc! no, I suflYr'd long

From that ill thought; and hcing blind,

Said, Pride shall help me in my wrong: >

Kind mother have I been, as kind

As ever breathed; and thnt is true;

I've wet my path with tears like dew,

Weeping for him when no one knew.

My Son, if thou he humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount, how short a voyage brings
The wanderers bark to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
AH that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Muim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desart thrown
Inheritest the Linn's den;
Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
i

I look for Ghosts; hut none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead;

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Forth aprang the impassion'd Queen her

Lord to clasp; Again that consummation she essayed; But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The Phantom parts—but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight.

"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice:
This is our palace, yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will

rejoice. Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed This precious boon,—and blest a sad abode."

"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect:—Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive,
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

Thou knnwst, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand

Should die; but me the threat did not withhold:

A generous cause a Victim did demand;

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;

A self-devoted Chief—by Hector slain."

"Supreme of Heroes—bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, That' then, when tens of thousands were

deprest By donbt, propelled thee to the fatal shore: Thou foundst, — and I forgive thee — here

thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

Bat thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and pood as brave; And He, whose power restores thee, hath

decreed That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the

grave; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair At when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

No Spectre greets me,—no vain Shadow this: Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my

side! (•ire, on this well-known couch, one nuptial

kiss To me, this day, a second time thy bride!" ■Jotefrowned in heaven; the conscious Parca:

threw I'pon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish.— Earth destroys
Those raptures duly—Erebus disdains:
Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains.

Be taught, oh faithful Consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve The depth and not the tumult of the soul; The fervor—not the impotence of love. Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn When I depart', for brief is my sojourn—"

"Ah, wherefore? Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian Monster of the

tomb Alcestis, a reanimated Corse, Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's

bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Eson stood a Youth 'mid youthful

peers.

The Gods to us arc merciful—and they
Yet further may relent: for mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sgiiM.cn- the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star
Is Love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favourite seat be feeble
Woman's breast.

But if thou go'st,! follow—" Peace! he said— She looked upon him and was calmed and

cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared Elysian beauty—melancholy ffracc— Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away—no strife to heal—
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake, as a witness, of a second birth
For nil that is most perfect upon earth:

Of all that is most beauteous—imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air.
And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Climes which the Sun, who sheds the

brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath

earned That privilege by virtue.—111—said he—

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