The love that in my bosom glows,
Will live when I shall long be dead,
And haply tinge some budding Rose
That blushes o'er my grassy bed!

O thou who hast so long been dear,
When I shall cease to smile on thee,
I know that thou wilt linger here,

With pensive soul to sigh for me.

Yes, Laura, come; and with thee bring, To sooth my shade, young flowerets fair; Give them around my grave to spring,

And watch them with a Lover's care!

Upon his bosom and his prayer was heard; For from some mountain cliff at length arose The sound of running waters :-what

bound

a

Was then in every heart, and what a cry Of joy, as from its parent source, clothed round

In lovely green, the clear, cold rivulet Gushed sparkling in the sun!-An Angel's

voice

Could not have sweeter been. Then down they sat

And doft their helms, and bathed their burning brows;

And from their heavy armour cleared away The sharp, dry desert sand; then pitched

the tents

And spread their frugal fare-No sounds were heard

But those of mirth; here on the grassy turf The careless warriors lay, and oft between Rose the sweet song of their own native land

Even sweeter because heard in foreign clime; For nought like music has the magic power To bring the shades of long forgotten joys Back to the weeping memory; softer grew The soldier's heart, and Piety and Love Led all their thoughts to home; then silence sunk

Upon the camp, and every warrior breath'd His evening orisons, and slept in peace.

Ere yet the sun had with his earliest beam Purpled the east, the Christian army rose, Renewed in strength and hope; deep gratitude

Beamed in each countenance as the leaders

came

Forth from their tents, beneath the cool clear air,

To fit their armour on; each youthful Squire

Smiled to his master, as he clasped the

helm

Or fixt the spur, or backed the impatient steed,

And told how soon he hoped to gain renown
And knighthood in the breach of Antioch.
Thus marched they on in joy, and gained
at last

The barren ridge of Amanus, which divides
With rocky girdle the Cilician waste.
From the fair fields of Syria, all behind,
Lay a drear desert, but before them spread,
In rich expansion, that delightful vale
Through which Orontes rolled his sable

wave.

ELVERSHÖH,-A FAIRY BALLAD.

(From the German of Herder.)

I LAID my head on the Fairy-hill,

With watching my eyes were weary,When I was aware of two maidens fair, Came tripping with smiles right cheery.

Fal The one she stroked my milk-white chin,
In my ear one softly sings:
"Rise up, rise up, thou Younker brave,
And trip in our moonlight rings!

"Rise up, rise up, thou Younker brave, And trip in the moonlight ring, And my Maidens each one of the silvery

tone

Shall their loveliest ditties sing."

And then began her song to sing

The loveliest of all the train

And the streamlet's roar was heard no more, It own'd the magic strain.

The noisy stream it flowed no more,

But stands with feeling listening; The sporting fishes lave in the silvery wave, And friend by foe is glistening.

The fishes all in the silvery wave,

Now up, now down, are springing; The small birds are seen in the coppice green To sport their songs while singing. "Listen, O listen, thou Younker brave! If with us thou wilt gladly be, We'll teach thee to chime the Runic rhyme, And write the Gramarye.

"We'll teach thee how the savage bear

With words and spells we charm;
And the dragons that hold the ruddy gold
Shall fly thy conquering arm.

And here they danced, and there they danced,

And all love's lures are trying; But the Younker brave, as still as the grave, Grasped his sword beside him lying.

"Listen, O listen, thou Younker proud! If still thy speech denying,

Our vengeance shall wake, and nought shall it slake

But thy blood this green turf dyeing !"

And then-O happy, happy chance!
His song Chanticleer begun,-
Else left were I still on the Fairy-hill
With the Fairy Fair to won.

And hence I warn each goodly youth,

Who strolls by yon streamlet fair, That he lay him not down on the Elf-hill's

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING CHILD.

Written after witnessing her last Moments.

I.

I CANNOT weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a parent's breast; But ah! what sighs or tears can heal Thy griefs, and wake the slumberer's rest? II.

What art thou, spirit undefined,

That passest with Man's breath away! That givest him feeling, sense, and mind, And leavest him cold, unconscious clay ! III.

A moment gone I looked, and lo

Sensation throbbed through all this frame; Those beamless eyes were raised in woe; That bosom's motion went and came.

IV.

The next a nameless change was wrought,
Death nipt in twain Life's brittle thread,
And in a twinkling, feeling, thought,
Sensation, motion-all were fled !
V.

Those lips will never more repeat

The welcome lesson conned with care; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, To Heaven the well-remembered prayer!

VI.

Those little hands will ne'er essay
To ply the mimic task again,
Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play
A Mother's promised gift to gain!

VII.

That heart is still-no more to move: That cheek is wan-no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love,

That speaks a parent's welcome home. VIII. And thou, with years and sufferings bowed, Say, dost thou least this loss deplore? Ah! though thy wailings are not loud, I fear thy secret grief is more.

IX.

Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long,
But thine with life itself will last,
And Age will feel each sorrow strong
When all its morning joys are past.
X.

'Twas thine her infant mind to mould,
And leave the copy all thou art;
And sure the wide world does not hold
A warmer or a purer heart.
XI.

I cannot weep, yet I can feel

The pangs that rend a Parent's breast; But ah! what sorrowing can unseal Those eyes, and wake the Slumberer's rest ?* J. M DIARMID.

*These lines appeared anonymously a few weeks ago in a Scotch Weekly Paper; but we have discovered the Author, and believe he will not be displeased to see them reprinted with his name in this Miscellany. 4 L

Poetical Epistles and Specimens of Translation. 12mo, Edinburgh, Constable & Co., 1813.

THIS elegant little volume is manifestly the production of a man of erudition, taste, sensibility, and genius. It abounds with imagery;-it is everywhere animated with easy, natural, and lively feeling ;-and it exhibits numerous examples of extreme felicity in language and versification, perfectly decisive of the accomplished scholar. Its very faults and defects (and they are both multifarious and glaring), instead of offending, really impart to our minds a kind of confused pleasure, arising, we conceive, from that kindliness and good-will towards the anonymous Poet, which his happy, careless, and indolent nature, irresistibly excites so that we come at last to look on his occasional weaknesses and vagaries as characteristic traits peculiar to himself, and which endear him to us almost as much as his many high and valuable qualities.

We never read poems which so clearly bear the marks of having been written purely for the gratification of the author, without any intention, or even prospect, of publication. They contain just such thoughts, feelings, and remembrances, as are likely to arise in the heart and mind of an amiable and enlightened man, when indulging poetical reveries in his solitary study or evening-walk; and thus, though they are often vaguely, obscurely, and indefinitely, conceived and expressed, there is always about them a warmth, a sincerity, and earnestness, which force us to overlook every fault in composition, -while the happier passages are distinguished by an ease, freedom, elegance and grace, truly delightful, and not to be surpassed in the very best specimens of our opuscular poetry.

Yet with all this merit, we believe the volume has attracted little attention. In the present day, unless a poet stand in the first class, he has but little chance of being read at all; and the ignorant are now as fastidious as the learned. But this is certain, that every true lover of poetry will be happy to listen to the sacred song, from

whatever source it flows,-whether from the bright and conspicuous shrine to which all eyes are turned, or from the obscure and shaded fountain which flows but to cheer its own solitude. In an age when great poets exist, there must likewise exist many minds of the true poetical character, but with humbler faculties and lower aspirations. From their writings, much, perhaps, may be learned, which is not to be found in strains of higher mood, and which bears more directly on the business and duties of life. They stand more nearly on a level with their readers; their thoughts and sympathies are more kindred and congenial with the ordinary thoughts and sympathies of man; their souls more closely inhabit, and more carefully traverse, this our every-day world; and the sphere of their power is in the hallowed circle of domestic happiness. Let no one, therefore, deceive himself into a belief, that he does in his heart rationally love poetry, unless he is above being chained by the fascination of great names, and delighted to meet with imagery, sentiment, and pathos, even in a small, obscure, and anonymous volume like this, which, evidently written by a man of genius and virtue, is given to the public from no desire of fame, but from the wish to impart to others the calm, unostentatious, and enlightened happiness which, during the composition of it, he himself must have enjoyed, in thoughtful and philosophical retirement.

The volume consists partly of original compositions, and partly of translations from Euripides, Anacreon, and Tyrtæus ;-from Horace, from Dante, from Petrarch, and from Klopstock. The original compositions are in the form of Poetical Epistles.

The first of these Epistles seems to have been written as far back as the year 1799, when it appears, from several passages, the author was a member of the University of Oxford. The first part of it contains a description of a pedestrian tour through the Highlands of Scotland, performed by the author, in company with the friend to whom the Epistle is addressed; a

transition is made, from a well-merited compliment to Mrs Grant, the celebrated writer of the Letters from the Mountains, to the many persons of learning and genius whom Scotland has in modern times produced; an attempt is made to characterize their peculiar endowments; and the Epistle concludes with some personal feelings and hopes, and fears, and aspirations, of the author, in a supposed colloquy between himself and the enlightened friend with whom he holds his poetical correspondence.

The principal merit of this poem is the very great skill with which the character of epistolary composition is preserved. Though abounding in description, the writer always bears in mind, that the person to whom he is writing is as familiar with the objects described as he himself is; and, therefore, he rather recalls the remembrance of them by short and vivid touches than by any protracted and laborious delineation. It is an admirable specimen of a poetical journal.

The following passage has, we think, very extraordinary merit-it is simple, clear, and descriptive.

"The waves were crimson'd by the setting · sun,

Retiring Staffa met the ruddy rays,
And veil'd her columns in a rosy haze;
Dark isles, around the skirts of ocean spread,
Seem'd clouds that hover'd o'er its tossing
bed.

By craggy shores and cliffs of dusky hue,
Scatter'd in open sea, our galley flew ;
Fearful! had storms these rocky mountains,
beat,

But now the laden waves scarce lick'd their feet,

And each brown shadow on the waters cast, Frown'd smilingly upon us as we passed. From rock to rock the galley smoothly slid, Now in wide sea, among the cliffs now hid; No round the skyey zone the red waves leapt,

Now in each narrow channel dark they slept. At last Iona burst into the scene, Reclin'd amid the ev'ning waves, serene, The last beams fainting on her russet green. Her crescent village, o'er the harbour hung, Spread its pale smoke the breezeless air along,

While from her highest mound the ruin'd

fane

With proud composure, ey'd the desert main. We gain'd the bay, and trembling touch'd

the land

On which, of old, religion's mighty hand Stretch'd from the skies, and half in clouds conceal'd,

Stamp'd the broad signet of the law reveal'd.

The fragment tales of legendary lore,
Our lingering feet in musing silence stray'd,
Till cross and holy image swam in shade.
No sound the solemn stillness broke, except
The passing gale, or charnel vaults that wept;
Or, from the ocean's dim-discover'd foam,
The dash of oars that bore the fisher home."

The Poet describes equally well the beautiful scenery of Balachuilish-the savage solitude of Glencoe-the quiet serenity of Glenroy-and the dreamlike and breathless slumber of Loch Laggan. We quote the description of the last scene, for the sake of the elegant tribute to the genius of a most excellent person.

"How deep thy still retreat, O Laggan

lake!

Who yet will hide me in thy birchen brake? Where thy old moss-grown trees are rotting down

Across the path, as man were never known; Where thy clear waters sleep upon the shore, As if they ne'er had felt the ruffling oar; Where on thy woody promontory's height, The evening vapours wreathe their folds of light,

While from their driving fleece the torrents, flashing,

Down the rude rocks in long cascade are dashing !

O you would think on that lone hill that none Had e'er reclin'd, save the broad setting sun! Yet here the musing steps of genius roam From neighbouring Paradise of love and home :

That gifted Spirit whose descriptions, warm, Paint Highland manners, every mountain

charm,

By the green tomhans of this fairy wood, Nurses her glowing thought in solitude!"

The second Epistle is addressed to the Poet's Wife, and contains remembrances of, and reflections on, all the most interesting feelings and incidents of his boyish and youthful days, interspersed with grateful acknowledgments of his present happiness, and many affecting expressions of contentment with his peaceful lot. That man is to be pitied, who can read this Epistle without sincere admiration of the writer's accomplishments, and affection for his amiable and simple character. What can be more touching than the following remembrance of his boyish happiness?

"Free as the gales, and early as the dawn, Forth did we fly along the level lawn,