Miscellaneous Poems.

LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A
SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet, wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been:

Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of Nature it drew
From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace;
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the
place,

Where the flow'r of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;
But patience shall never depart!

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd,

With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore:
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again; To bear is to conquer our fate.

ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew :-
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace;
Rosy Summer, next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace :-
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
Or India's citron-cover'd isles.

More remote, and buxom brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star;
And loves on deer-born car to ride,
With barren darkness at his side,

Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale—
Save when adown the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflow'ring Nature's grassy robe

And trampling on her faded form;
Till light's returning Lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his northern field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,—
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel power of desolation!
(Fast descending as thou art)
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear :
To shivering want's unmantled bed

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And mildly on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!

The sailor on his airy shrouds,

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep;

Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores ;*

* This Ode was written in Germany at the close of the year 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark brown Danube roars.
O winds of winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan?
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

OH! leave this barren spot to me-
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen trec.
Though shrub or flow'ret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murm'ring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial treasure of the hive:
Yet leave this little spot to me→
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen troe.
Thrice twenty summers I have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude-
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour-
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture paid;
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carv'd many a long-forgotten name:
Oh! by the vows of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground;
By all that love hath whisper'd here,
Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear:
As love's own altar honour me-
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.