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It is, with the scattered garlands

Of triumphs long ago,
With the melodies of buried lyres,

With the faded rainbow's glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants,

For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,

And vase of rich perfume;

Now, dim, forsaken Mirror,

Thou giv’st but faintly back
The quiet stars and the sailing moon,

On her solitary track.

And thus with man's proud spirit

Thou tellest me 't will be,
When the forms and hues of this world fade

From his memory as from thee:

And his heart's long-troubled waters

At last in stillness lie,
Reflecting but the images

Of the solemn world on high.



Restless forms of living light,
Quivering on your lucid wings,
Cheating still the curious sight
With a thousand shadowings;-
Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams,
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams !

Harmless warriors, clad in mail
Of silver breastplate, golden scale ;-
Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing,
Fleet are ye, as fleetest galley,
Of pirate rover sent from Sallee ;
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.

Was the sun himself your sire ?
Were ye born of vital fire ?
Or of the shade of golden flowers,
Such as we fetch from eastern bowers,
To mock this murky clime of ours ?

Upwards, downwards, now ye glance,
Weaving many a mazy dance;
Seeming still to grow in size
When ye would elude our eyes.
Pretty creatures! we might deem
Ye were happy as ye seem,-
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleamed in far Cathay.

And yet, since on this hapless earth · There 's small sincerity in mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart; It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, Your restless roving round and round The circuit of your crystal bound, Is but the task of weary pain, An endless labour, dull and vain ; And while your forms are gaily shining, Your little lives are inly pining!

Nay, but still I fain would dream
That ye are happy as ye seem;
For what is Oriental pride
To an English warm fireside ?
And what are Oriental skies
To a British maiden's eyes!



SILENCE and loveliness divide the calm
Of night, and cheerily we float along,
The season's fervour tempered by the balm
Of breeziness and shade; the dance, the song
Beguiling time, while harbour, town and spire
Flit phantom-like away in cloudy throng,
And as the stately shores of Bute retire,
Loch-Fyne receives us, rippling all around
In ever-varying gleams of lambent fire,
The frolic genii of the deep, that bound
Athwart the wave; invoking mist and rain
On such as with the pipe's unlicensed sound,
Or merriment of middle earth, profane
Their carnival amid the haunted main.



Gifted of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye,
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were joined, beholding thee,
As in the drama's ever changing scene
Thou held'st thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domain confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

The' impassioned changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form and high imperial grace ;
Thine arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gathered on thy brow,
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fixed and yearning looks of strong affection ;

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