The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,

On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;

The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd;

An honest heart was almost all his stock;

His drink the living water from the rock :

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent

Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.

From labour health, from health contentment springs,

Contentment opes the source of every joy;

He envied not, he never thought of, kings;

Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy,

That chance may frustrate, or indul gence cloy :

Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd;

He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor

mistress coy,

For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd,

And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife;

Each season, look'd delightful, as it past,

To the fond husband, and the faithful wife;

Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life They never roam'd; secure beneath the

storm

Which in ambition's lofty land is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm

Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform

The wight, whose tales these artless lines unfold,

Was all the offspring of this humble pair :

His birth no oracle or seer foretold : No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare.

You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth;

The parent's transport, and the parent's

care;

The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;

And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye: Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy,

Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy. Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy;

And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why;

The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and bless'd the lad; some believ'd him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display?

Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;

Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray

Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped,

Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head;

Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd

stream

To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,

Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring: His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed

To work the woe of any living thing, By trap or net, by arrow or by sling; These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield;

He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,

Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field: And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in won. der, roves

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;

And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,

From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine :

While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah! no he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,

The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,

And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn;

Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn,

Where twilight loves to linger for a while; [fawn, And now he faintly kens the bounding And villager abroad at early toil.But lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb,

When all in mist the world below was lost :

What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,

Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,

And view th' enormous waste of vapour tost

In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,

Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, [scene: Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful In darkness, and in storm, he found delight;

Nor less, than when on ocean-wave

EDWIN'S MEDITATIONS IN
AUTUMN.

"O YE wild groves, O where is now
your bloom "

(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)

"Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,

Of late so grateful in the hour of drought!

Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought

To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?

Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?

For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,

And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.

"Where now the rill, melodious, pure,

and cool,

And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd!

Ah! see, th' unsightly slime, and slug. gish pool,

Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd; Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,

The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:

And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,

Down the vale thunders; and with wasteful sway,

Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.

"Yet such the destiny of all on earth;

So flourishes and fades majestic man! Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,

And fostering gales a while the nursling fan:

O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,

Nor lessen of his life the little span : Borne on the swift, though sient wings of Time,

Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

"And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,

Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn:

But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,

Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.

Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return?

Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?

Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,

And spring shall soon her vital influence shed,

Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

"Shall I be left abandon'd in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive,

Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?

Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain?

No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught,

In sooth, 't was almost all the shepherd knew,

No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,

Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue:"Let man's own sphere" (quoth he) "confine his view;

Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew

Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,

By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.

"And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,

O never, never turn away thine ear; Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!

To others do (the law is not severe) What to thyself thou wishest to be done. Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, [alone; And friends, and native land; nor those All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own.

MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side.

To haunted stream, remote from man he hied,

Where Fays of yore their revels wont to keep;

And there let Fancy roam at large, till sleep

A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep

Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,

With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of Night.

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;

And forth a host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.

Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,

And green their helms, and green their
silk attire.

And here and there, right venerably old,
The long-robed minstrels wake the

And some with mellow breath the martial
warbling wire,
pipe inspire.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,

A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance :

The little warriors doff the targe and spear,

And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.

They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance

To right, to left, they thrid the flying

FANCY AND EXPERIENCE.

I CANNOT blame thy choice (the Sage replied),

For soft and smooth are fancy's flowery ways.

And yet even there, if left without a guide,

The young adventurer unsafely plays. Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays,

In modest truth no light nor beauty find. And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze,

That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind,

To joy each heightening charm it can impart,

But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.

And often, when no real ills affright, Its visionary fiends, and endless train, Assail with equal or superior might, And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain,

And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain.

And yet, alas! the real ills of life Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared,

Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife,

Its guide Experience, and Truth its guard.

We fare on earth as other men have fared:

Were they successful? Let not us despair.

Was disappointment oft their sole reward?

Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear.

O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!

Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;

ne'er had shined?

Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart,

And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight:

abide.

Ah me abandon'd on the lonesome plain,

As yet poor Edwin never knew your

lore,