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I know thee only in thy page

Of simplest truth, by taste refined ;-But though I ne'er have seen thy face, Not seldom, do I love to trace

The features of thy mind!

Pure, as the calm, sequestered stream,

That winds its way through flowers and fern; Now gliding here, now wandering there, Diffusing coolness every where,

Refreshing all in turn :

Thus do thy strains, serene and sweet,

Well from their calm, untroubled shrine ;
Winning their way, from heart to heart,
And healing many a mourner's smart

With balsam, half divine !

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What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand,

I see thee oft in Fancy's glass; “ Edwin ” and “Ranger” in thy train, Pacing across the village plain,

The “ Broken Bridge” to pass !*

And mark thy devious footsteps threading

The “Church-yard's" green and grassy rise ; Now, stopping by some fresh-made grave, News of the timeless dead to crave,

To make the living wise !

Or by the “open casement sitting,”

With“ autumn's latest flowers” before thee;
Drinking thy.“ Birdie’s ” merry notes,
Or tracking the sun as he proudly floats

To his haven of rest and glory!


And when grey Twilight weaves her web,

"And the sounds of day-life melt away;In thy“ garden plot” I see thee stand, Watching the “ night-stock’s” leaves expand

Or framing some soothing lay!

* Allusions to Miss Bowles's works.


Some low, sweet dirge, of softest power

To stir the bosom’s inmost strings ;-
When friends departed, pleasures fled,
Or a sinless infant's dying bed,

Are the themes thy fancy brings !

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Oh! much I love to steal away

From gairish strains, that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine, And pause o’er each wildly-witching line,

Till my tears, unbidden, start!

For thou hast ever been to me

A gentle monitor and friend; And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong,

That solace while they mend !

Hence, have I sought, in simple phrase,

To give my gratitude a tongue;
And if one stricken heart I bring,
For comfort, to the self-same spring,

Not vainly have I sung.


Adieu ! we ne'er may meet on earth,

Yet I feel I know thee passing well ;-
And when a pensive face I see,
Fair as my cherished thoughts of thee,

I'll deem it thine -FAREWELL!



Haunt of the bard and painter, hardy child
Of nature, cradled in the giant arms
Of winter, and the lonely mountains wild!
I leave thee, Caledonia, but thy charms
Are pictured on my heart! May never tread
Of foemen, nor the trumpet of alarms
Approach thee more: but peace and plenty spread
Their mantle o'er thee, and the laurelled crown
Of Science grace thy castellated head.
For me,-till health, and reason's self be flown,
The thought shall kindle, and the tongue shall tell
Thy lakes and rocks, thy patriots and renown.
Land of the frith, the cataract, and the dell,
Land of the Wallace and the Bruce,--Farewell !




Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning

brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they

to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know

a care.

The children of the poor man— though they be young,

each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun; And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

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