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The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou 'poor Inhabitant below,'
At this dread moment—even so—

Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!

But why go on ?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,

Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied

Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,

Harboured where none can be misled,

Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said

That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place

Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace

For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,

A ritual hymn,
Chaunted in love that casts out fear

By Seraphim.

Thoughts Suggested The Day Following, On The Banks Of Nlth, Near The Poet's Residence.

Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed—' The Vision' tells us how—

With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,

And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung

In social grief-
Indulged as if it were a wrong

To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream

Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right

His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight

And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,

We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command

Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trode
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,

With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,

The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,

Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause

And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause

That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen

Are felt the flashes of his pen:

He rules mid winter snows, and when

Bees fill their hives:
Deep in the general heart of men

His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme

From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time

Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven

With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven

Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share

With all that live?—
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!
VOL. iV. E

'She Was A Phantom.'

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair,

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

(1804.)

'I WANDERED LONELY.'

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(1804.)

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