'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

'For here, forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go.'

'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,
'To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

'Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

'No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that power that pities m...

Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:
Joy too and grief—much joy that there should be,
Wise men and learn’d, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer’s mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe’er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

Who stops the Minister of State,
When hurrying to the Lords' debate?
Who, spite of gravity beguiles,
The solemn Bishop of his smiles?
See from the window, "burly big,"
The Judge pops out his awful wig,
Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While
both the Sheriffs and the Mayor
Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And
who detains the Husband true,
Running to Doctor Doode-Doo,
To save his Wife "in greatest danger;"
While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger
Another hour from life and light,
To gape at the bewitching sight.
The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret,
Despite his poetry and merit,
Stops in his quick retreat awhile,
And tries the long-forgotten smile;
E'en the pursuing Bum forgets
His business, and the man of Debts;

Ah! weary Priest! with pale hands pressed
On thy throbbing brow of pain,
Baffled in thy life-long quest,
Overworn with toiling vain,
How ill thy troubled musings fit
The holy quiet of a breast
With the Dove of Peace at rest,
Sweetly brooding over it.
Thoughts are thine which have no part
With the meek and pure of heart,
Undisturbed by outward things,
Resting in the heavenly shade,
By the overspreading wings
Of the Blessed Spirit made.
Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong
Sweep thy heated brain along,
Fading hopes for whose success
It were sin to breathe a prayer;
Schemes which Heaven may never bless,
Fears which darken to despair.
Hoary priest! thy dream is done
Of a hundred red tribes won
To the pale of Holy Church;
And the...

Sure never yet was antelope
Could skip so lightly by.
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope
Will hit you in the eye.
How lightly Whirls the skipping-rope !
How fairy-like you fly !
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope --
I hate that silly sigh.
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope,
Or tell me how to die.
There, take it, take my skipping-rope,
And hang yourself thereby.

How, in the light of morning,
Round me thou glowest,
Spring, thou beloved one!
With thousand-varying loving bliss
The sacred emotions
Born of thy warmth eternal
Press 'gainst my bosom,
Thou endlessly fair one!
Could I but hold thee clasp'd
Within mine arms!

Ah! upon thy bosom
Lay I, pining,
And then thy flowers, thy grass,
Were pressing against my heart.
Thou coolest the burning
Thirst of my bosom,
Beauteous morning breeze!
The nightingale then calls me
Sweetly from out of the misty vale.
I come, I come!
Whither? Ah, whither?

Up, up, lies my course.
While downward the clouds
Are hovering, the clouds
Are bending to meet yearning love.
For me,
Within thine arms
Upwards!
Embraced and embracin...

Upon Her Appearing At A Ball In An Elegant Plaid Dress,

And Having Repeatedly Before Expressed Her Preference Of The Scotish Nation.


Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;
Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;
Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye,
O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly;
For here the warrior oft has rais'd his sword,
The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd;
Here too the sweet Recorder of the brave
Has sat and sung up...

I

An age hath been when Earth was proud
Of lustre too intense
To be sustained; and Mortals bowed
The front in self-defence.
Who 'then', if Dian's crescent gleamed,
Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed
While on the wing the Urchin played,
Could fearlessly approach the shade?
Enough for one soft vernal day,
If I, a bard of ebbing time,
And nurtured in a fickle clime,
May haunt this horned bay;
Whose amorous water multiplies
The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes;
And smooths her liquid breast to show
These swan-like specks of mountain snow,
White as the pair that slid along the plains
Of heaven, when Venus held the reins!

II

In youth we love the darksome lawn
Brushed by the owlet's wing;
Then, Twilight is preferred to Da...

    Than farthest stars more distant,
            A mile more,
            A mile more,
    A voice cries on insistent:
    "You may smile more if you will;

    "You may sing too and spring too;
            But numb at last
            And dumb at last,
    Whatever port you cling to,
    You must come at last to a hill.

    "And never a man you'll find there
            To take your hand
            And shake your hand;
    But when you go behind there
    You must make your hand a sword

    "To fence with a foeman swarthy,
            And swink there
            Nor shrink there,
    Though cowardly and worthy
    Must drink there one reward."

    Ah! little lake, though fair thou art,
        A sapphire flashing to the sky,
        Thy charm is only for the eye,
    Thy beauty cannot hold my heart.

    Green hill-sides bending to thy shore
        Gleam clear in the autumnal light,
        While far above, Monadnock's height
    Keeps rugged guard thy waters o'er.

    And yet these very beauties cloy;
        As in a prison I am bound,
        Though fair the walls that gird me round,
    My housemate is no longer joy.

    Thy loveliness breeds discontent,
        For far my foolish heart would be,
        It longs for the unquiet sea,
    And with desire is sorely rent.

    Hateful the walls that me debar
        From happier things that haunt me so,
        Even ...

Surely Lucy love returns,
Though her meaning's not reveal'd;
Surely love her bosom burns,
Which her coyness keeps conceal'd:
Else what means that flushing cheek,
When with her I chance to be?
And those looks, that almost speak
A secret warmth of love for me?

Would she, where she valued not,
Give such proofs of sweet esteem?
Think what flowers for me she's got--
What can this but fondness seem?
When, to try their pleasing powers,
Swains for her cull every grove,--
When she takes my meaner flowers,
What can guide the choice but love?

Was not love seen yesternight,
When two sheep had rambled out?
Who but Lucy set them right?
The token told, without a doubt.
When others stare, she turns and frowns;
When I but glance, a smile I ...

    Of specious weight like tissue freight
The snowflakes are - in sparkle pure
    As the rich parure
A lovely queen were proud to wear;
As volatile, as fine and rare
As thistle-down dispersed in air,
    Or bits of filmy lace;
Like nature's tear-drops strewn around
That beautify and warm the ground,
    But melt upon my face.

    A ton or more against my door
They lie, and look, in form and tint,
    Like piles of lint,
When war's alarum roused the land,
Wrought out by woman's loyal hand
From linen rag, and robe, and band -
    From garments cast aside -
In hospital, on battle-field
The shattered limb that bound and healed,
    Or stanched life's ebbing tide.

    I see the gleam of lake and stream,
The silver glint...

1.

If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
(Though much I hope she will postpone it,)
I've held a share Joy and Sorrow,
Enough for Ten; and here I own it.


2.

I've lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I'd pass them in the 'same' employment.


3.

That 'is' to say, with 'some exception',
For though I will not make confession,
I've seen too much of man's deception
Ever again to trust profession.


4.

Some sage 'Mammas' with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner -
But 'Daughters' say, "although he's naughty,
You must not check a 'Young Beginner'!"


5.

I've loved, and many damsels know...

    "Welcome, maids of honor,
    You do bring
    In the spring,
    And wait upon her.
    She has virgins many,
    Fresh and fair,
    Yet you are
    More sweet than any."

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young
And weep because I know all things now:
I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung
The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough
Among my leaves in times out of mind:
I became a rush that horses tread:
I became a man, a hater of the wind,
Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head
May not lie on the breast nor his lips on thc hair
Of the woman that he loves, until he dies.
O beast of the wilderness, bird of the air,
Must I endure your amorous cries?

In the dim chamber whence but yesterday
    Passed my beloved, filled with awe I stand;
    And haunting Loves fluttering on every hand
Whisper her praises who is far away.
A thousand delicate fancies glance and play
    On every object which her robes have fanned,
    And tenderest thoughts and hopes bloom and expand
In the sweet memory of her beauty's ray.
Ah! could that glass but hold the faintest trace
    Of all the loveliness once mirrored there,
    The clustering glory of the shadowy hair
That framed so well the dear young angel face!
    But no, it shows my own face, full of care,
And my heart is her beauty's dwelling place.

Thy mansion is the Christian’s heart,
O Lord, thy dwelling-place secure!
Bid the unruly throng depart,
And leave the consecrated door.


Devoted as it is to thee,
A thievish swarm frequents the place;
They steal away my joys from me,
And rob my Saviour of his praise.


There, too, a sharp designing trade
Sin, Satan, and the world maintain;
Nor cease to press me, and persuade
To part with ease, and purchase pain.


I know them, and I hate their din,
Am weary of the bustling crowd;
But while their voice is heard within,
I cannot serve thee as I would.


Oh for the joy thy presence gives,
What peace shall reign when thou art here!
Thy presence makes this den of thieves
A calm delightful house of prayer.
...

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
    Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
    Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
    Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
    Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
    From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
    As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast
    That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
    To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize
    And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
    Is ...