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Oft when the dying breeze sha' seek
Fra' twilight grove,
Thy pipe o' Love.
Mourn o'er the flood,
In music rude:
While, as thy songs o' freedom sound,
Wi’ Wallace bled;
Bow to the dead !
The flood's majestic genius rears
His furrow'd front sublime in years, state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the picasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I cannot help thinking it might have been here that he conceived the idea of the following lines, which he afterwards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a combination of objects as were now present to his eye.
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild, checquering thro' the trees,
Hoarse swelling to the breeze.
Life of Burns. + In the midst of the storm on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was rapt in meditation. What do you think he was about? He was charging the English army along with Bruce at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the following address of Bruce to his troops: “ Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,”' &c.
Life of Burns.
And as the swelling pomp he hears,
Rolls his dark eye, And shakes the reeds wreath'd o'er his ears,
Tumbling fra' high.
Night silent comes; the hero band
His moon-lit wave;
Soothe the stern brave !
How solemn thus, when life's aw'd sight
Steal fra' the eye;
But night is gane; the smiling morn
And truth ance mair
The charm o' ayr!
Ah, (blush, ye proud, on wealth wha doat!)
The blythsome strain;
His heart a' pain!
But in the grave na wcalthy scorn
The wither'd wreath;
Shrunk into death!
Yet shouldst thou scorn a hundred deaths,
For Burns they weave immortal wreaths;
Fra' ev'ry grove
That talks o' love!
Adieu, wi' a' thy wood-notes wild,
In Sorrow's breast;
Thou'rt gane to rest!
THE SYLPHID. Sort the pleasure, sweet the pain, As Philomel's unrivall’d strain, Wafting on the odorous air, Soothing every rising care, Awakes the moon, with aspect mild, And the Eve's bewitching child, The evening star, the sign of love That views the secrets of the grove, And silence keeps the Sylphids fair Hold their revels in the air; Or in forests' gloomy shade, Frequent each nook or secret glade; As they charm the list ning skies, With the choicest ecstasies; And lull the falling moon to sleep, Neath yonder craggy mossy steep; Where lapt in sweet Endymion's arms, She gives him all her secret charms; Then they weave the colours bright, Which enchant men's wandering sight, When falling drops descend in showers, To scent the dale and amorous bowers; Where lovers fast asleep are laid, Secur'd with caution in the shade. How oft amid the silent night, The Sylphs their tender songs indite, And chaunt their strains along the air; Sometimes fraught with amorous care,
Sometimes on a purple zone, Captivate the rising moon; Sometimes basking near a rill, Murmuring soft with magic skill, Till the listener, wooing pain, Thinks he hears a tender strain, On the zephyr gently call, To hear the roaring water fall ; Ofttimes on the buoyant Sale, Tells a fancied, frightful tale, Of death, t alarm the wanderer by," Then giggle at his misery: Or when with sportive thoughts inclin'd, She fills a modest virgin's mind, When fast asleep no fear of harm, With every kind display, to charm The lovely boy, who in her dreams A little sportive Cupid seems; And when the wisht-for kiss is nigh, The visions with the Sylphid fly : Her lover likewise feels the power, At lonely midnight's sacred hour; Over rocks and gloomy woods, Over vales and dangerous floods, Over seas and mountains high, The lover's fancies smoothly fly; And when he gains the odorous Ind, With the swiftness of the wind, He finds the enchanting lovely prize, The beauteous vision cruel dies ! He wakes-the Sylphid skips away, Affrighted at the dawn of day; Gliding on the rays of morn, She gives her lovers to adorn Apollo's rosy fragrant car, Like the crimson god of war; And at spring profusely throws The purple violet and the rose O'er the sweet and verdant lawn, Scenting all the dews of morn; And at summer's closing eve Cloaths of flowery texture weave,
For the hoyden and the boy,
THE SHIPWRECKED BOY.
BY N. HOWARD.
The prey of ev'ry blast,
Hurl'd in the tempest round. Ah torn, perhaps, ah torn, in infant years, From tender parents, and from shelt'ring home,
How throbs thy guileless breast,
Made bare by the rude wind !
Which chase each other down,
In glittring drops of woe.
While wat’ry mountains huge
Roar dread destruction round.
Or 'mid the fractur'd wrecks,
Or floating corses pale, 'Tis thine, to hear hoarse seamen's dying groans, To witness heaps of hanging waters dire,
When steers with belly'd sail
No friendly saving bark. 'Tis thine, perhaps, to die in deserts wild, Where no fon i parent soothes thy parting soul !
Unknown, to die unblest, .. A naked bleaching corse,
X X-VOL, XVII.