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If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deap thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star:
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips-" The foe! They come!
they come!"

And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But, with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

E'er evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,-the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,

The earth is cover'd thick with other day,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

WEALTH. Vanity of.

Byron.

Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it?

Why dost thou load thyself when thou'rt to fly,

Oh, man! ordain'd to die?

Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
Thou who art under ground to lie?

Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see,
For death, alas! is reaping thee.

Suppose thou fortune couldst to tameness bring,
And clip or pinion her wing;

Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail,
As not to cut off thy entail;

Yet death at all that subtility will laugh;
Death will that foolish gard'ner mock,
Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff
Upon a lasting stock.

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem;

A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;

Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while
Dost but for others sweat and toil.

Officious fool! that needs must meddling be
In bus'ness that concerns not thee;

For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares,
Thou dealst in other men's affairs.

Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were
Children again, for age prepare;
Provisions for long travel they design,
In the last point of their short line.

WHARTON. Duke of, his Character.
Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise:

Cowley.

Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies:
Tho' wond'ring senates hung on all he spoke,
The club must hail him master of the joke..
Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too;
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire,

And now the punk applaud, and now the friar.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible to shun contempt:
His passion still to covet gen'ral praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A constant bounty which no friend has made:
An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind:
Too rash for thought for action too refin'd:
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves;

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke thro' ev'ry rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool. Pope.
WINTER.

"Tis done: dread winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man!

See here thy pictur'd life; pass some few years,
Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding winter comes at last,

And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled
Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes
Of happiness? those longings after fame;
Those restless cares? those busy bustling days?

Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life?
All now are vanish'd! Virtue sole survives.

WISDOM. Address to.

O wisdom! if thy soft control
Can sooth the sickness of the soul,
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace;
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear:
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh:
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r
To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of wo,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow;
Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name:
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!
Let these, in fairy colours drest,
For ever share my careless breast:
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

WISDOM. Grief, Best School of.

Thomson.

Barbauld.

If wisdom is our lesson, (and what else
Ennobles man? what else have angels learnt?)
Grief, more proficients in thy school are made,
Than genius, or proud learning, ere could boast;
Voracious learning, often over-fed,
Digests not into sense her motley meal.

This forager on others' wisdom leaves
Her native farm, her reason quite untill'd:
With mixt manure she surfeits the rank soil,
Dung'd, but not drest; and rich to beggary:
A pomp untameable of weed prevails.

WISDOM. Lessons of.

How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,
The disappointments, and disgusts of those
Who would in pleasure all their hours employ;
The precepts here of a divine old man
I could recite. Tho' old, he still retain'd
His manly sense, and energy of mind:
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;
He still remember'd that he once was young;
His easy presence check'd no decent joy.
Him ev'n the dissolute admir'd; for he
A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could instruct. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind.

Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falsely smiling fate has curs'd with means
To dissipate their days in quest of joy.

Our aim

happiness: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
He said, 'tis the pursuit of all that live;
Yet few attain it, if 'twas ere attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who thro' the flow'ry paths of saunt'ring joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.

For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless fate
Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.

Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick,
And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: be busy for yourself,

Young.

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