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The little tree complains :
“ My glass lies on the ground; Each other tree remains
With its green dress all round. Might I but have
wish once more,
And early wakes to the light;
He laughs outright,
with udders full, Forth a wild she-goat sprung, Seeking for herbs to pull
To feed her young.
stalk. The little tree again is bare,
And thus to himself he said,
Be they green, or yellow, or red :
And sadly opened his eye;
And laughs as he would die :
And what set the rest in a roar ?
Every needle he had before;
IN A CHURCHYARD. How soft! how calm ! what stillness breathes around, Bidding each care, each earthly passion cease ; In gentle accents whispering from the ground A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE. SWEET Philomel ! no more thy voice I hear Warbling at eve to meet my pensive ear
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove ;
And fill with melody the leafy grove ?
Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along
And nothing now remains to prompt thy song ; But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to thy lay of love.
THE EVENING CLOUD.
AN EMIGRANTS THOUGHTS OF HOME.
Still sweetly in our memories dwell,
Since last we breathed our fond farewell;
THE HOLY ISLE. Far, far, amid those distant seas
Where ev’ning leaves her latest smile, Where solemn ocean's earliest breeze
Breathes peaceful o'er our holy isle ; Far from that vain distracted world,
Where care has rear'd her anxious throne, With passion's ensign sweetly furld,
We live and breathe for Heaven alone. Here fann'd by heav'nly temper'd winds,
Our island lifts her tranquil breast, Oh! come to her, ye wounded minds,
Oh! come and share our holy rest ! When sinks the sun beyond the west,
Our vesper hymn salutes him there; And when he wakes the world from rest,
We meet his morning light with prayer. To all the same returning light,
The same returning fervour brings ; And thoughtful in the dawning bright,
The spirit spreads her heav'nward wings.
Fair isle of piety and song;
LIFE. It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be ; Or standing long, an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere. A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.
MELROSE. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, those ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain show'r Streams on the ruin'd central tower, When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grare, Then go but go alone the while And view St. David's ruin'd pile, And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad, so fair!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky, And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The wearied to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track, 'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers
sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my
wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us; rest—thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.