In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers.

At dawn, when every grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At even, when beans their fragrance shed, I' the rustling gale,

Ye maukins whiddin through the glade, Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling through a clud ;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane forever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals,
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake ;

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower, In some auld tree, or eldritch tower, What time the moon, wi' silent glower, Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn.

O rivers, forests, hills and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains But tales of wo?

And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall keep a tear : Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green flowery tresses shear, For him that 's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yehow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, Winter, hurling through the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we 've lost.

TAKE one example to our purpose quite. A man of rank, and of capacious soul, Who riches had, and fame, beyond desire, An heir of flattery, to titles born, And reputation, and luxurious life: Yet, not content with ancestorial name, Or to be known because his fathers were, He on this height hereditary stood, And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart To take another step. Above him seemed Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat Of canonized bards; and thitherward, By nature taught, and inward melody, In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. No cost was spared. What books he wished, ne

read;

What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first, in rambling school-boy days,
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wished:
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valor fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
With years; and drank from old and fabulous
wells,

And plucked the vine that first-born prophets picked;

Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,

His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top

As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And opened new fountains in the human heart.
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,

Beneath their argument seemed struggling; whiles

He, from above descending, stooped to touch The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,”
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who
sung

His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;

worn,

As if he from the earth had labored up,
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair
He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
The nations gazed, and wondered much and
praised.

Critics before him fell in humble plight;
Confounded fell; and made debasing signs
To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled
themselves

To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
Of admiration vast; and many too,
Many that aimed to imitate his flight,
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
And gave abundant sport to after days.

Great man! the nations gazed and wondered

storms

His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds; all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,-
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,

Died, all but dreary, solitary Pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall,
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
A scorched and desolate and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, -
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the
earth.

His groanings filled the land his numbers filled;
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. Poor

man!

Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.

ROBERT POLLOK.

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

EMMET'S EPITAPH.

[Robert Emmet, the celebrated Irish Revolutionist, at his trial for high treason, which resulted in his conviction and execution. September 20, 1803, made an eloquent and pathetic defence, con. cluding with these words: "Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. Let my character and my

motives repose in security and peace till other times and other men can do them justice. Then shall my character be vindicated; then may my epitaph be written. I have done." It was immediately upon reading this speech that the following lines were written.]

"LET no man write my epitaph; let my grave
Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest
Till other times are come, and other men,
Who then may do me justice."

Emmet, no!
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up,
That I should now be silent, that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,
Of that divinest impulse nevermore
Worthy, if impious I withheld it now,
Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free Isle,
To which in thy young virtue's erring zeal
Thou wert so perilous an enemy,

Here in free England shall an English hand
Build thy imperishable monument;
O, to thine own misfortune and to ours,
By thine own deadly error so beguiled,
Here in free England shall an English voice
Raise up thy mourning-song. For thou hast paid
The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
Justice hath done her unrelenting part,
If she in truth be Justice who drives on,
Bloody and blind, the chariot-wheels of death.

So young, so glowing for the general good,
O, what a lovely manhood had been thine,
When all the violent workings of thy youth
Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared,
Left to the slow and certain influences
Of silent feeling and maturing thought!
How had that heart, — that noble heart of thine,
Which even now had snapped one spell, which
beat

With such brave indignation at the shame

And guilt of France, and of her miscreant lord, -
How had it clung to England! With what love,
What pure and perfect love, returned to her,
Now worthy of thy love, the champion now
For freedom, yea, the only champion now,
And soon to be the avenger. But the blow

Hath fallen, the undiscriminating blow,
That for its portion to the grave consigned
Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. O, grief, grief!
O, sorrow and reproach! Have ye to learn,
Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,
Ye who thus irremissibly exact
The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked,
When in distempered times the feverish mind

To strong delusion yields? Have ye to learn
With what a deep and spirit-stirring voice
Pity doth call Revenge? Have ye no hearts
To feel and understand how Mercy tames
The rebel nature, maddened by old wrongs,
And binds it in the gentle bands of love,
When steel and adamant were weak to hold
That Samson-strength subdued !

Thy epitaph! Emmet, nay;
Without thy funeral strain!

Let no man write

thou shalt not go O young and good, And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go Unhonored or unsung. And better thus

Beneath that undiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that awful hour

Had turned away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark zeal,
And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires
Of Persecution once again ablaze.
How had it sunk into thy soul to see,
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France
In thy dear native country lording it!
How happier thus, in that heroic mood
That takes away the sting of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven !
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remembered, mourned, and honored still!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

O, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!

ROBERT EMMET.

O, BREATHE not his name! let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

THOMAS MOORE.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT! the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den,