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Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;
And through the trees I view th’embattled tow'r,
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade.
The roof, though moveable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd,
And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.
The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes, and more than half suppress’d:
Pleas'd with his solitude, and Aitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendant drops of ice,
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence. Meditation here
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.


Toll for the brave! .

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought ;

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle ;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes !
And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again
Full-charg'd with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o’er;
And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.


SURVIVOR sole, and hardly such, of all
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth,
(Since which I number threescore winters past,)
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued
With truth from heaven, created thing adore,
I might with rev'rence kneel, and worship thee, -


It seems idolatry with soine excuse,
When our forefather Druids in their oaks
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet
Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball
Which babes might play with; and the thievish

jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have parloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. . But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe prepard The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away! '..

Thou fell’st mature; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burn thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, .. .

And, all the elements thy puny growth
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig.
Who liv'd when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou

As in Dodona once thy kindred trees.
Oracular, I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but, at thy mouth :
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,
The clock of history, facts and events
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts .
Recov'ring, and mistated setting right
Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again!
Time made thee what thou wast, king of the

woods; And Time hath made thee what thou art—a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O’erhung the champaign; and the num'rous flocks That grazd it stood beneath that ample cope : Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. . No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.

While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship-first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as cent’ry roll'de Slow after century, a giant-bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root, Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd VOL. VI.


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