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Not Thule's waves so wildly break

To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempests roar.

As when in summer's sweetest day
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn;

Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;

At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.

But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And show'd what rage had done:

O then what anguish he betray'd!

His shame how deep, how true! He view'd the waste his rage had made, And shudder'd at the view.

The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the op'ning day,

Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May ;

The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thick'ning grove,
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love:

When pious ELDRED early rose

The Lord of all to hail; Who life with all its gifts bestows, Whose mercies never fail !

That done he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away ;
He lov'd to court the distant shade,
And through the lone vale stray.

Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embrac'd,

A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste:

While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;

The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.

Of Eglantine an humble fence

Around the mansion stood,

Which serv'd at once to charm the sense, And screen an infant wood.

The wood receiv'd an added grace,
As pleas'd it bent to look,
And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook:

The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;

But little streams may serve to tell

The source from which they flow.

This mansion own'd an aged Knight,

And such a man was he,

As Heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.

His youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war;
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.

The vigour of a green old age

His reverend form did bear;

And yet, alas! the warrior sage

Had drain'd the dregs of care:

And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey,
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks grey.

One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame,
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And BIRTHA was her name.

Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet,

And holy Hope and Faith divine
Had claim'd it for their seat.

She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,

And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower
From ev'ry ruder blast:

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And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield,

For wisdom, by a father's care,
Was found in ev'ry field.

The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay
Might lecture human pride:

While fair perennial greens that stood,
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind he view'd,
Which shall for ever last.

He taught her that the gaudiest flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,
But wasted soon their little powers,
Dropt useless on the ground:

While the sweet-scented rose shall last,
And still retain its power,
When life's imperfect day is past,

And beauty's shorter hour.

And here the virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,
And here she oft retir'd to read,
And oft retir'd to pray.

Embower'd she grac'd the woodland shades,

From courts and cities far,

The pride of Caledonian maids,

The peerless northern star.

As shines that bright and lucid star,
The glory of the night,

When beaming through the cloudless air
She sheds her silver light:

So BIRTHA shone! - But when she spoke The Muse herself was heard,

As on the ravish'd air she broke,

And thus her prayer preferr'd:

"O bless thy BIRTHA, Power Supreme,
"In whom I live and move,
"And bless me most by blessing him
“Whom more than life I love.”

She starts to hear a stranger's voice,
And with a modest grace
She lifts her meek eye in surprize,
And sees a stranger's face.

The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,
While she with equal wonder view'd
SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER.

The virgin blush which spreads her cheek
With Nature's purest dye,

And all those dazzling beams which break
Like morning from her eye,

He view'd them all, and as he view'd
Drank deeply of delight;

And still his raptur'd eye pursued,

And feasted on the sight.

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