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To issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken, Unless he climb with footing nice A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid ; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnish'd sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolld; In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurld, The fragments of an earlier world ; A wildering forest feather'd o'er His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.
SCOTT. THE FIRMAMENT.
The spacious firmament on high,
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown
and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves
lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs
the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang
and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves,—the gentle race of
flowers Are lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good of
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November
rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the briar-rose and the orchis died amid the summer
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn
beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland,
glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such
days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter
home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the
trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill ; The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance
late it bore, And sighs to find them in the wood, and by the stream,
THE MINSTREL'S HOPE.
“O YE wild groves, oh, where is now your bloom !"
Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool ?
and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.
Yet such the destiny of all on earth :