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"It was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"Oh pity, great father of light, then I cry'd, Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo! humble in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness, thou only canst free.'
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'
ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.
AT the silence of twilight's comtemplative hour,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
From each wandering sun-beam a lonely embrace; For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
But patience shall never depart!
Tho' the wilds of enchantment, all vermil and bright,
Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
Thro' the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;-
Sad is my fate! (said the heart-broken stranger)—
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?-
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
THE small-birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the
The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the sweet dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? -No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice?
His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find
But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn!My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn: Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial!Alas! can I make you no sweeter return!
GRAY'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
Reprinted according to the original copy.
THE Curfew tolls-the knell of parting day! The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeted breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dustOr Flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death?
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
Some village-Hampden,that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.