O let your spirit still my bosom sooth,

Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth; For well I know, wherever ye reside,

There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.

Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart:
Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing, enamour'd, of the nut-brown maid;
The moon-light revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,

And ply in caves the unutterable trade,*

Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood.

But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,

Macbeth How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, What is't you do?

Witches. A deed without a name.

A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,

The orphan babes, and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce

That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone!
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,

To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die, 'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry; "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy

99

Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear.-
"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,
"And innocence thus die by doom severe ?"
O Edwin while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th'assaults of discontent and doubt repel :
Dark even at noon-tide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope to doubt, is to rebel,—
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

* See the fine old ballad, called, The Children in the Wood:

Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,

Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften and refine the soul for Heaven.

But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of wo.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer-day,
Shall the poor gnat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,

If but a momentary shower descend!

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend

Wide thro' unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!

One part, one little part, we dimly scan
Thro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem.
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
O then renounce that impious self-esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies:
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

Thus Heaven enlarg'd his soul in riper years;
For Nature gave him strength and fire, to soar

On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;
Where dark cold-hearted skeptics, creeping, pore
Through microscope of metaphysic lore;
And much they grope for truth, but never hit.
For why? their powers, inadequate before,
This art preposterous renders more unfit;

[wit.

Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth,
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device,

Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;
Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice
To purchase chat or laughter, at the price
Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed,
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.
Ah! had they been of court or city breed,
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

Oft when the winter-storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where 'midst the changeful scenery ever new Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant-size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves.
In black array

When sulph'rous clouds roll'd on the vernal day, Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,

Along the trembling wilderness to stray,

What time the lightning's fierce career began, [ran. And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder

Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclin❜d,
Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly.
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,
Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy,

When with the charm compared of heavenly melan choly!

Is there a heart that music cannot melt ?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse: he is her scorn.

The sophist's robe of cobweb he shall twine;

Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;

Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swinc.

For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,
And languish'd to his breast the plaintive flute.