Then rouse, my soul, in Fate's resistless day, "Tis he that spurns each feigning friend's embrace. And thou, that after youth unvext with pain, Sages, who musing deep the course explore Of things that are, and things that are no more, Hide, in your breasts, the strange mysterious plan, Since silence best becomes the lot of man. Not mortal might can stay the ceaseless course Of Fate, that rules us with resistless force. Even you may wander from your homes exil'd, With wayward camels, through the sandy wild. EDINBURGH. J. L. ELEGY. THE setting sun still lingers in the mead, And gilds the landscape with his parting beam; Yon lowing heifers ruminating' feed, And gentle breezes curl the winding stream, Along whose banks, with lingering steps, I love In fancy I behold him pensive bend, Beside the river where tall woods are seen, The treacherous angle quivers in his hand, And oft the starting tear bedims his sight. Ah! at this moment does he think on me? That unrelenting, that severe decree, Which harshly told us we should meet no more? Yes! Fancy brings his image to my view, Alas! to think how very short a space Divides us now!—we both perhaps may stray Mournful I gaze upon the rippling tide, Should he upon thy mossy bank recline, Sweet winding river! murmur in his ear 'These vows sincere, these tender sighs of mine, ' And tell him thou art fraught with many a tear; 'Tell him, that though we must for ever part, Through time and space his image will endure; And still be cherish'd at my faithful heart; For, like thy stream, my love is deep and pure.' N. S. S. L. WHAT IS AN EPIGRAM ? WHAT is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole, ΕΣΤΗΣΕ. BALLAD. Он tarry, gentle traveller; Oh tell me what has tempted thee O tell me what has tempted thee Say, hast thou not a partner dear, That's constant to thy love, and kind ? And wilt thou leave her faithful side, Nor cast one sorrowing look behind? Yon sun that gilds the village spire, Does mad ambition lure thy steps For life is like yon crimson beam It sparkles-glimmers-fades-and dies. O waste not then thy fleeting hours That bounteous nature made thy own. For me, nor gold, nor princely power, Nor purple vest, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophied grandeur boasts Shall lure me from my tranquil home. This rustic cot and silent shade Shall evermore my dwelling be; E'en when my destined days are spent I'll rest beneath yon aged tree. Beside the brook, a simple stone Return then, gentle traveller, For distant mountains far away. |