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And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic
Combined with fancy's wild magnificence;
Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous

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Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires, And mounts to God exulting to be free From fleshly chain that binds mortality, The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn, And glory dwells for ever round her urn! Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air That felt her breathings and that heard her prayer;

Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod, And there e'en Atheists must believe in God! Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!

Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave! The parted soul in god-given strength sublime,

Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time;

Still on the earth the sainted hues survive,
Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.
In vain the tide of ages strives to roll
A bar to check the intercourse of soul;
The hovering spirits of the good and great
With fond remembrance own their former

state,

And musing virtue often can behold

In vision high their plumes of wavy gold, And drink with tranced ear the silver sound Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round. By death untaught, our range of thought is small,

Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball. Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears,

Ignobly pent within a few short years;

book, On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look,

Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom, And life springs forth exulting from the tomb!

Oh, blest ELIZA! though to me unknown Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone; Though on this earth apart our lives were led, Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled;

Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay,
And rend the glimmering veil of death away:
Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye,
Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by;
Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast,
As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest!
While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of
On that fair land thou lovedst of old so well,
mercy dwell
What holy raptures through thy being flow,
To see thy memory blessing all below,
Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires,
And vice repentant shun his low desires!
This the true Christian's heaven! on earth

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Oft 'mid the calm of mountain-solitude,
Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd;
Where lonely cataracts with sullen roar
To thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore,
And caverns moaning with the voice of night,
Steep'd through the car thy mind in strange
delight-

I feel thy influence on my heart descend
Like words of comfort whispered by a friend,
And every cloud in lovelier figures roll,
Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul!
And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light,
The sun in glory bathes each radiant height,
Amid the glow thy form seraphic seems
To float refulgent with unborrow'd beams;
For thou, like him, hadst still thy course
pursued,

From thy own blessedness dispensing good;
Brightly that soul in life's fair morn arose,
And burn'd like him, more glorious at its
close.

But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn, Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee

mourn.

For though to all unconscious time supplies A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs; And in our loneliest hours of grief is given To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven,

Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress, Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness, And sorrow, selfish from excess of love, Would glad recal the seraph from above! And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast,

While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest,

Who rock'd her cradle with requited care, And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer; To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye, From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly,

And, though by fate denied the power to save, Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave,

When slow consumption led with fatal bloom
A rosy spectre smiling to the tomb;
The strain of comfort first to thee would
flow,

But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow;

And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul. For reason whispers, and religion proves, That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves;

And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom, Cheer'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb.

Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall

O'er scenes gone by that thou wouldst fain recal,

Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled
A parent weeping her departed child,
Than love maternal, when her baby lay
Hush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play,
And, as some glimpse of infant-fancy came,
Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken

name.

Thou feelst no more grief's palpitating start, Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart.

Though sky and star may yet awhile divide Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride, Your spirits mingle-while to thine is given A loftier nature from the touch of heaven.

EDITH AND NORA.

A PASTORAL POET'S DREAM. SHE hath risen up from her morning-prayer, And chained the waves of her golden hair, Hath kissed her sleeping sister's cheek, And breathed the blessing she might not speak,

Lest the whisper should break the dream that smil'd

All Nature speaks of thy departed child, The flowery meadow, and the mountain-Round the snow-white brow of the sinless

wild;

Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing, And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring! The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam,

Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd

The misty summit and the woodland glade, The sparkling depth that slept in waveless

rest,

And verdant isles reflected on its breast.
As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray,
While eve stills dimly on retiring day,
And the pale light that nameless calm
supplies,

That holds communion with the promised skies,

When Nature's beauty overpowers distress,
And stars soft-burning kindle holiness,
Thy lips in passive resignation move,
And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of
love.

The languid mien, the cheek of hectic dye,
The mournful beauty of the radiant eye,
The placid smile, the light and easy breath
Of nature blooming on the brink of death,
When the fair phantom breathed in twilight-

balm

A dying vigour and deceitful calm,
The tremulous voice that ever loved to tell
Thy fearful heart, that all would soon be well,

child.

Her radiant Lamb and her purpling Dove Have ta'en their food from the hand they love;

The low deep coo and the plaintive bleat
In the morning-calm, how clear and sweet!
Ere the Sun has warmed the dawning hours.
She hath watered the glow of her garden-
flowers,

And welcomed the hum of the earliest Bee
In the moist bloom working drowsily;
Then up the flow of the rocky rill
She trips away to the pastoral Hill;
And, as she lifts her glistening eyes
In the joy of her heart to the dewy skies,
She feels that her sainted Parents bless
The life of their Orphan Shepherdess.

'Tis a lonely Glen! but the happy Child Hath friends whom she meets in the morningwild!

As on she trips, her native stream,
Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream,
And glides away by her twinkling feet,
With a face as bright and a voice as sweet
In the osier-bank the Ouzel sitting,
Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting
From stone to stone, as she glides along.
Then sinks in the stream with a broken song
The Lapwing, fearless of his nest,
Stands looking round with his delicate crest

Or a lovelike joy is in his cry,

As he wheels and darts and glances by. Is the Heron asleep on the silvery sand Of his little lake? Lo! his wings expand As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread, Cloudlike he floats o'er the Maiden's head. She looks to the birch-wood-glade, and lo! There is browzing there the mountain-roe, | Who lifts up her gentle eyes, nor moves As on glides the form whom all nature loves. Having spent in heaven an hour of mirth, The Lark drops down to the dewy earth, And as silence smooths his yearning breast In the gentle fold of his lowly nest, The Linnet takes up the hymn, unseen In the yellow broom or the bracken green. And now, as the morning-hours are glowing, From the hillside-cots the cocks are crowing, And the Shepherd's Dog is barking shrill From the mist fast rising from the hill, And the Shepherd's-self, with locks of gray. Hath blessed the Maiden on her way! And now she sees her own dear flock On a verdant mound beneath the rock, All close together in beauty and love, Like the small fair clouds in heaven above, And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight Is swimming o'er with a still delight.

And how shall sweet Edith pass the day, From her home and her sister so far away, With none to whom she may speak the while, Or share the silence and the smile,

When the stream of thought flows calm and deep,

And the face of Joy is like that of Sleep? Fear not the long, still Summer-day On downy wings hath sailed away, And is melting unawares in Even, Like a pure cloud in the heart of Heaven, Nor Weariness nor Woe hath paid One visit to the happy Maid Sitting in sunshine or in shade. For many a wild tale doth she know, Framed in these valleys long ago By pensive Shepherds, unto whom The sweet breath of the heather-bloom Brought inspiration, and the sky Folding the hill-tops silently, And airs so spirit-like, and streams Aye murmuring through a world of dreams. A hundred plaintive tunes hath she— A hundred chaunts of sober gleeAnd she hath sung them o'er and o'er,— As, on some solitary shore,

Tis said the Mermaid oft doth sing Beneath some cliffs o'ershadowing, While melteth o'er the waters clear A song which there is none to hear! Still at the close of each wild strain Hath gentle Edith lived again O'er long-past hours - while smiles and sighs Obeyed their own loved melodies. Now rose to sight the hawthorn-glade, Where that old blind Musician played

So blithely to the dancing ring-
Or, in a fit of sorrowing,
Sung mournful songs of other years
That filled his own dim eyes with tears.
And then the Sabbath seemed to rise
In stillness o'er the placid skies,
And from the small Kirk in the Dell
Came the clear chime of holy Bell,
Solemnly ceasing, when appeared
The gray-haired Man beloved and feared-
The Man of God-whose eyes were filled
With visions in the heavens beheld,
And rightfully inspired fear,
Whose yoke, like Love's, is light to bear.
--And thus sole-sitting on the brae,
From human voices far away,
Even like the flowers round Edith's feet,
Shone forth her fancies wild or sweet;
Some in the shades of memory
Unfolding out reluctantly,
But breathing from that tender gloom
A faint-etherial-pure perfume;
Some burning in their full-blown pride,
And by the Sun's love beautified;
None wither'd-for the air is holy,
Of a pure spirit's melancholy;
And God's own gracious eye hath smiled
On the sorrows of this Orphan-Child;
Therefore, her Parents' Grave appears
Green, calm, and sunbright through her
tears,
Beneath the deep'ning hush of years.

An Image of young Edith's Life, This one still day-no noise-no strife— Alike calm-morning-noon-and even— And Earth to her as pure as Heaven.

Now night comes wavering down the sky The clouds like ships at anchor lie, All gathered in the glimmering air, After their pleasant voyage: there One solitary bark glides on

So slow, that its haven will ne'er be won.
But a wandering wind hath lent it motion,
And the last Sail hath passed o'er the
heavenly ocean.

Are these the hills so steeped by day,
In a greenness that seemed to mock decay,
And that stole from the Sun so strong and
light,

That it well might dare th' eclipse of night?
Where is the sound that filled the air
Around—and above-and every where?
Soft wild pipes hushed! and a world of wings
All shut with their radiant shiverings!
The wild bees now are all at rest

In their earthen cell-or their mossy nest-
Save when some lated labourers come
From the far-off hills with a weary hum,
And drop down 'mid the flowers, till morn
Shall awaken to life each tiny horn.
Dew sprinkles sleep on every flower,
And each bending stalk has lost its power-

No toils have they, but in beauty blest,
They seem to partake in Nature's rest.
Sleep calms the bosom of the Earth,
And a dream just moves it in faintest mirth.

The slumber of the hills and sky
Hath hushed into a reverie
The soul of Edith-by degrees,
With half-closed eyes she nothing sees
But the glimmer of twilight stretched afar,
And one bright solitary star,

That comes like an angel with his beams,
To lead her on through the world of dreams.
She feels the soft grass beneath her head,
And the smell of flowers around her shed,
Breathing of Earth,-as yet, she knows
Whence is the sound that past her flows,
(The flowery fount in its hillside-cell)
But a beauty there is which she cannot tell
To her soul that beholds it, spread all around;
And she feels a rapture, oh! more profound
Than e'er by a dream was breathed, or
driven

Through a bosom, all suddenly filled with heaven.

Oh! come ye from heaven ye blessed
Things,

So silent with your silvery wings
Folded in moonlight-glimmerings?
-They have dropt like two soft gleams of
light,

Those gracious Forms, on the verdant height
Where Edith in her slumber lies,
With calm face meeting the calm skies,
Like one whose earthly course is o'er,
And sleepeth to awake no more!
Gazing upon the Child they stand,
Till one with small soft silent hand
Lifts from that brow the golden hair—
Was ever mortal face so fair?
God gives to us the sleeping maid!
And scarcely are the kind words said,
Than Edith's lovely neck is wreathed
With arms as soft as zephyrs breathed
O'er sleeping lilies,-and slowly raised
The still form of the child, amazed
To see those visages divine,
And eyes so filled with pity, shine
On her, a simple Shepherdess,
An orphan in the wilderness!

"O, happy child! who livest in mirth And joy of thine own on this sinful Earth, Whose heart, like a lonely stream, keeps singing,

Or, like a holy bell, is ringing
So sweetly in the silent wild-
Wilt thou come with us, thou happy child,
And live in a land where woe and pain
Are heard but as a far-off strain
Of mournful music,-where the breath
Of Life is murmuring not of Death ;

And Happiness alone doth weep,
And nought but Bliss doth breathe our sleep.
Wilt thou come with us to the Land of
Dreams?"
-A kiss as soft as moonlight seems
To fall on Edith's brow and cheek-
As that voice no more is heard to speak;
And bright before her half-closed eyes
Stand up these Shapes from Paradise,
Breathing sweet fear into her heart!
-She trembleth lest their beauty part,
Cloudlike, ere she be full awake,
And leave her weeping for their sake,
An orphan Shepherdess again,
Left all by herself in that lonely glen!

"Fear not, sweet Edith! to come along With us, though the voice of the Fairy's Song

Sound strange to thy soul thus murmuring

near

Fear not, for thou hast nought to fear!
Oft last thou heard our voice before,
| Hymnlike pass by thy cottage-door
When thou and thy sister were at prayers,
Oft hast thou heard it in wild low airs,
Circling thy couch on the heathery hill,-
And when all the stars in heaven were still,
As their images in the lake below,
That was our voice that seemed to flow,
Like softest waters through the night,
The music breathed from our delight.
Then, come with us, sweet Edith! come
And dwell in the Lake-Fairy's home;
And happier none can be in heaven,
Than we in those green vallies, given
By Nature's kind beneficence
To us, who live in innocence;
And on our gentle missions go,
Up to the human world of woe,
To make by our music mortal Elves
For a dream as happy as ourselves;
All flitting back ere the morn arise,
To our own untroubled Paradise.”

"O waft me there, ere my dream is gone. For dreams have a wild world all their own! And never was vision like to this

O waft me away ere I wake from bliss!
But where is my little sister? Where
The child whom her mother with dying
prayer

Put into my bosom, and bade us be
True to each other, as on the sca
Two loving birds, whom a wave may divide.
But who float back soon to each other's
side!

Bring Nora here, and we two will take
Our journey with you deep down the Lake,
And let its waters for ever close
O'er the upper world of human woes,
For young though we be, and have known
no strife,

Yet we start at the shadows of mortal life;

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A sound of parting wings is heard, As when at night some wandering bird Flits by us, absent from its nest

Beyond the hour of the Songsters' rest. For, the younger Fairy away hath flown, And hath Nora found in her sleep afone, Hath raised her up between her wings, And lulled her with gentlest murmurings, And borne her over plain and steep With soft smooth glide that breaks not sleep, And laid her down as still as death By Edith's side on the balmy heath, And all ere twice ten waves have broke On the Lake's smooth sand, or the aged oak Hath ceased to shiver its leaves so red Beneath the breeze that just touched its head. The heath-flowers all are shining bright, And every star has it own soft light, And all the quiet clouds are there, And the same sweet sound is in the air, From stream and echo mingling well In the silence of the glimmering dell,But no more is seen the radiant fold Of Fairy-wings bedropt with gold, Nor those sweet human faces! They Have melted like the dew away, And Edith and Nora never more Shall be sitting seen on the earthly shore! For they drift away with peaceful motion, Like birds into the heart of ocean, Some silent spot secure from storins— Who float on with their soft-plumed forms Whiter than the white sea-foam, Still dancing on from home to home; Fair Creatures! in their lonely glee Happier than Stars in Heaven or Sea.

Long years are past-and every stone Of the Orphans' cot is with moss o'ergrown, And wild-stalks beautiful and tall Hang o'er the little garden-wall, And the clear well within the rock Lies with its smiling calm unbroke By dipping pitcher! There the hives! But no faint feeble hum survivesDead is that Cottage once so sweet, Shrouded as in a winding-sheetNor even the sobbing of the air Mourns o'er the life that once was there!

O happy ye! who have flown afar From the sword of those ruthless men of war,

That, for many a year, have bathed in blood
Scotland's green glens of solitude!
Orphans were ye-but your lips were calm
When together ye sang the evening-psalm ;

Nor sound of terror on the breeze,
E'er startled you up from your humble knees,
When on the dewy daisied sod,
In heaven ye worshipp'd your Father's God,
After the simple way approved

By men whom God and Angels loved.
Dark-dark days come-when holy prayers
Are sinful held, and snow-white hairs
By ruffian hands are torn and strewed,
Even where the Old Man bows to God!
Sabbath is heavy to the soul,

When no kirk-bell is heard to toll,
Struck dumb as ice-no bridal show
Shines cheerful through these days of woe;
Now are the blest baptismal rites
Done by lone streams, in moonless nights;
Now every lover loves in dread;
Sleep flies from cradle and from bed;
The silent meal in fear is blest;
In fear the mother gives her breast
To the infant, whose dim eyes can trace
A trouble in her smiling face.
The little girl her hair has braided,
Over a brow by terror shaded ;
And virgins, in youth's lovely years,
Who fear not death, have far worse fears.
Wailing is heard o'er all the land,
For, by day and night, a bloody hand
A bloody sword doth widely wave,
And peace is none, but in the grave.

But Edith and Nora lead happy hours
In the Queen Lake-Fairy's palace-bowers,
Nor troubles from the world of ill
E'er reach that kingdom calm and still,
A dream-like kingdom sunk below,
The fatal reach of waking woe!
There, radiant water-drops are shed,
Like strings of pearl round each Orphan's
head,

Glistening with many a lovely ray,
Yet, all so light, that they melt away,
Unfelt by the locks they beautify-
The flowers that bloom there never die,
Breathing for ever through the calm
A gentle breath of honeyed balm;
Nor ever happy Fairy grieves
O'er the yellow fall of the forest-leaves
Nor mourns to hear the rustling dry
Of their faded pride in the frosty sky;
For all is young and deathless there,
All things unlike-but all things fair.
Nor is that saddest beauty known
That lies in the thoughts of pleasure flown;
Nor doth joy ever need to borrow

A charm to its soul from the smiles of

sorrow.

Nor are the upper world and skies Withheld, when they list, from these Orphans' eyes—

The shadow of green trees on earth Falls on the Lake and the small bird's mirth

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