Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,-- Help us to tell her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring the best beloved and best. Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, throng'd with primroses, the steep rock's breast And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, O happy garden! whose seclusion deep STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt one 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, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: At mid-day, when the sun was shining bright; Ah! piteous sight it was to see this man Down would he sit; and without strength or power Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong: And his own mind did like a tempest strong With him there often walk'd in friendly guise, Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 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. He would have taught you how you might employ And, certes, not in vain; he had inventions rare. Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: A pipe on which the wind would deftly play- A mailed angel on a battle-day; And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold; He would entice that other man to hear 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, 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, From many knights and many squires Sad tidings to that noble youth! But what is Gordon's beauteous face, Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn, Beholds them blest and blessing. Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, And, starting up, to Bruce's heart, And, stepping forth to meet the same, The youth, her chosen lover. And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus from the heart of her true love But many days, and many months, This wretched knight did vainly seek 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 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; STRANGE fits of passion I have known 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, Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, My horse trudged on-and we drow nigh And now we reach'd the orchard plot; Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, My horse moved on; hoof after hoof When down behind the cottage roof. At once the bright moon dropp'd. What fond and wayward thoughts will slids "O mercy "" "If Lucy should be dead!" SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praiso, A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one She lived unknown, and few could know But she is in her grave, and, oh, I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, "Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd And thine is too the last green field 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 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, She loves her fire, her cottage home; 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. |