I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs❜ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair, That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd!
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes ;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),

Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd),
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,”*
And thy lov'd consort on the dang❜rous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.

* Garth.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.



As soon as Saville could man his feelings for the task, he set out for the mountains of Cumberland, to view the graves of his parents, and the scenes of his own boyish days. In entering on such a journey, there comes a tinge of romance over almost any mind; and, in so far as regards the latter, there are few things not immediately connected with relationship and affinity, which dash the cup of anticipated pleasure more rudely from the hand. When we leave in early youth the scenes of our infancy, these scenes remain upon the mind in all the freshness of infant pleasure. Pass where we may, or happen to us what will, though half the circumference of the globe should stretch its vast curve between, and though misfortune should roll over us its deepest and most turbid wave,-still the calm and clear light of morning plays on that fairy-land of life, and

reflects a pleasing ray over its gloomiest prospects. But then, if we are to enjoy this pleasure unbroken, we must not return. We forget not the scenes of our youth, but the scenes of our youth forget us; and while we sit by the rivers of Babel, thinking with delight on the promised land, the inhabitants of that land think not of us. The grey-haired rustics, whom in our boyhood we regarded as the oracles of wisdom, sleep each beneath his green sod; our playmates are scattered, or have forgotten us; and the hearths around which we laughed and talked the winter's evening, are either razed and gone, or in the hands of strangers, who have no feeling and no sympathy in common with us.

Saville felt in this manner; for, through all the sorrow which had settled down upon him, his pulse was beating quicker and more strongly as he approached the mountains of Cumberland. The contour of those grand features of nature struck a counterpart in his bosom, which no grief could altogether hide. He rode alone over the hills which he had once hoped to call his own; he looked for the house in which he had drawn his first breath, the pickaxe of an old labourer was rooting out the last GLENFERGUS.


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