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Amid the bow'r, with woodbines wove,
Gay blooming sweets among;
Pours forth his grateful song.
Inspire with rapt'rous glee:
Harmonious to each tree.
DARK LOURS THE NIGHT.
Dark lours the night o'er the wide stormy main,
* This song is from the pen of Mr. Wilson, whose poetical talents and history our readers have been made in some degree acquainted with in the Scottish department of this work; and we are happy to correct a mistake we had fallen into in Volume I. page 317, in stating Mr. Neilson as the printer of a poetical satire, which he has been kind enough to inform us is not the
We would be sorry to be the propagators of calumny of any kind, much more of unfounded statements, and therefore gladly make all the reparation in our power by this acknowledgment.
For see on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death
MY YOUNG AND BLOOMING BRIDE.
With strong and heavy tide,
To leave his blooming bride.
'Tis Mosca that implores;
Hark, how the tempest roars.
Nor fear the swelling tide!
My young and blooming bride.
Upon the beaten shore:
But he returns no more.
Reflected by her tear;
Her bosom throbb'd with fear!
Her straining eye descry'd;
A young and blooming bride!
THE LAST SHILLING.
As pensive one night in my garret I sat,
My last shilling produc'd on the table,
If to think and to speak it were able;
The face seem'd with life to be filling,
Pay attention to me thy last shilling.
Who in cheating was ne'er known to faulter; 'Till at length brought to justice, the law cheated him,
And he paid me to buy him a halter;
With a pleasure so hearty and willing,
Wish'd it hundreds, and gave his last shilling.
'Twas the wife of his messmate, whose glist’ning eye
With pleasure ran o'er, as she view'd me; She chang’d me for bread, as her child she heard cry,
And at parting, with tears she bedew'd me: But I've other scenes known, riot leading the way,
Pale want their poor families chilling; Where rakes in their ravels, the piper to pay,
Have spurn'd me, their best friend and last shilling. Thou thyself hast been thoughtless, for profligates bail
, But to-morrow all care shalt thou bury; When
my little hist’ry, thou offerest for sale: In the interim, spend me and be merry! Never, never, cried I, thou'rt my mentor, my muse,
And grateful, thy dictates fulfilling, I'll hoard thee in my heart. Thus men counsel refuse,
Till the lecture comes from the last shilling.
THE DESERTED MAID.
Wuy heaves that soft bosom, my maiden so fair?
Why starts thus the tear in thine eye? Sure thy soul is not canker'd, or worn out with care, That
you vent yourself thus with a sigh. Ah! grey beard, thou’rt old, the fair maiden replied,
And forget'st in the days that are gone,
And left them to grieve when alone.
He vow'd, and I lov’d in return;
And still my love stronger did burn.
How soon are thy hopes from thee torn!
And now he has left me to mourn.
THE LAST WORDS OF MARMION.
The war, that for a space did fail,
And Stanley! was the cry.
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fir'd his glaring eye;
And shouted victory!
TALK NOT OF LOVE.
Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
And plung’d me deep in woe.
My heart was form’d to prove;
But never talk of love.
Oh, why that bless destroy !
You know I will deny!
Conceal it in that thought;
The very friend I sought.
* We owe this piece to Burns's mysterious correspondent, hi much admired CLARINDA. It is a noble production, and certainly justifies the unceasing compliment he pays her in his letters, foi her refined taste and great mental endowments. The world i certainly much indebted to this amiable woman for those docu ments which, besides exhibiting many points of our Bard's cha racter, much to his praise, indisputably prove his merits as prose writer to be of the highest kind. This is not the only tim his fair friend had engaged the muses to their correspondence as the reader will see by the following extract from No. VII of his letters to that lady :-"Your last verses to me have s delighted me, that I have got an excellent old Scots air, tha suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the Scoto Musical Museum. The latter half of the first stanza would har been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it. The air is The Banks of Spey, and is most beautiful.”