Addressed to Lady Melbourne, Brocket Hall, Christmas, 1800.
IDE waves the oak its torn and shattered head,
Torn by the gale; and far the fragments spread;
The hail-storm beats upon the swollen lake,
And its surrounding rocks seem all to shake!
Beneath that nodding mountain's chalky scoop,
Colin and Phillis with their gipsey troop
In the lone caverns, on a heap of reeds
Listen, as blast to blast in storm succeeds;
And as each chilling gust the valley sweeps,
Phillis to Colin only closer creeps.
The batt'ling hurricane's impetuous roar,
Seems but to whisper, "love your Philis more."
Thus, in the dreary chill of winter's gloom,
When, (save in Melbourne's cheek) no roses bloom;
-The frost, which binds the stream and blasts the tree,
Serves but to melt the mind to social glee;
Warm grows the heart, as colder grows the day,
And Christmas boasts a smile, as sweet as May.
Spring has its roses and its lovely green;
Autumn its crops, which rural damsels glean;
And Christmas, too, its season hath of wealth,
Reaped with the work of joy, and glow of health.
When the hall fire and the lustres' blaze,
Rival the light and heat of summer's days;
And 'midst the dance and song, and jovial din';
"The sweet affections," get their harvest in.
Life, too, its seasons hath; its spring and fall,
Its buds, its glowing bloom, its changes all.
And oh! whene'er its cold and wintry snows
Shower on thy head, and furrow o'er thy brows,
May peace and virtue act in ages spite,
And give a cheerful heat, and cheerful light;
And leave-when chills and frosts of age set in,-
A mind, to warm the mansion well within.
On his Marriage with the Honourable ANNE DUNCOMBE, 1776.
The Winchester Boys having presented AN EPERGNE to Wharton, on his resigning the Mastership of their School. ing Verses were sent in their Name:
"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking,
And in the scowl of heav'n cach face
Grew dark, as they were speaking.
But, still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men ;
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"Oh! haste thee, haste," the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies;
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her;
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing ;
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore:-
His wrath was chang'd to wailing.
For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back, come back," he cried, in grief.
Across this raging water,
And I'll forgive your Highland chief;
My daughter, oh! my daughter!"
'Twas vain; 'the loud wave lash'd the shore,
Return or help preventing;
The waters wild, went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
O heard you cometh slowly, with weeping and wail?
II heard you the Pibrach sound sad in the gale,
''Tis the chief of Glenara, laments, for his dear,
And her sire and her kindred are called to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
But the kinsmen of Ellen, they mourn'd not aloud;
With plaids all their bosoms were folded around,
They march'd all in silence-they look'd on the ground.
In silence they walk'd over mountain and moor,
To heaths, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now, here, let us place the grey-stone of her cairne→
"Why speak ye no word?" said Glanara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
"Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?”
So spoke the rude chieftain-no answer was made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd!
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
(Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud)
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem,
"Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream."
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain I ween,
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen grew louder in scorn,
('Twas the youth's who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorne.)
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
"I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief,
“On a rock of the ocean, fair Ellen did seem,
"Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream?"
In guilt, low the traitor has knelt on the ground,
And the dastard reveals where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean the beauty was borne,
--Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorne.
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