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These were his traits of worth :

And must we lose them now!
And shall the scene no more show forth

His sternly-pleasing brow !
Alas! the moral brings a tear!

'Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go! Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review; Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !


Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett’st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou

That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
While the landscape's odours rise,
While far-off lowing herds are heard,

And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd

Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse ;
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. On leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow - My dark, unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant hower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honour me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!


I'll bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be, And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle-tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,

Thou spirit of a milder clime,
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,

Of mountain-heath and moory thyme.
With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy land. For sure, from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould ;


From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep,

Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost; Where Nature lights her leading star,

And love is never, never cross'd.

Oh, gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam,
To revel with the cloudless Hours
In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er

enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than cherub loves,

And let the name be Caroline.


Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you.

For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweeten'd the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June :

of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,

And your blossoms were part of her spell. Ev'n now what affections the violet awakes; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore ! What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks

In the vetches that tangled their shore ! Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.


Oh thou by whose expressive art

Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start,

And sweeter by reflection please! In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; I bless thee, Promethean Muse !

And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power,

Persuasive more than poet's tongue; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,

From Love, the sire of Nature, sprung. Does Hope her high possession meet?

Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet,

When all we love is all our own. But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,

Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart. Then for a beam of joy to light

In Memory's sad and wakeful eye !
Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.
Shall song its witching cadence roll ?

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat ? What visions rise! to charm, to melt!

The lost, the loved, the dead are near! Oh, hush that strain, too deeply felt!

And cease that solace, too severe !

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