No griefs this warrior soul can bow, MRS. MORTON. A MAROON SONG. are o'er; HASTE, haste, my companions! the night dews [are flown; From the mist-skirted mountains the shadows The bright morning star calls to the chase of the boar, [groan. And the rock's secret echoes are waiting his O'er the deep tangled thicket our toils shall prevail, In vain to the steep cliff the savage shall run; Where the cocoa waves gay to the balm-scented gale, And the aloe expands its tall spires to the sun. Ye spirits that triumph'd in death o'er your foe, But left the dark sons of your race to complain; Ye that bade, in your anguish, the heirs of your woe Be the heirs of your hatred, the chiefs of disdain; If ye sail in your pride on the sun's slanting beam, If ye robe your stern shades in the mist's fleeting form; Or if rather ye joy in the lightning's fierce gleam, And stride on the whirlwind, and trample the storm; O, come on your clouds, o'er the wide-rolling wave, To the hills of our freedom in triumph repair; For the blue-mantled mountains are trod by the brave, And the dark-dwelling sons of defiance are there. Hark! the horn's swelling tones call to danger away, [pass'd, And when the stern course of our pleasure is Though the whirlwinds of heaven wake around us their sway, [blast. We will heed not the tempest, and sing to the Haste, haste, my companions! the night dews are o'er; [are flown; From the mist-skirted mountains the shadows The bright morning star calls to the chase of the boar, [groan. And the rock's secret echoes are waiting his P. M. JAMES. SONG TO ZEPHYR. ZEPHYR! whither are you straying, Tell me where? With prankish girls in gardens playing, A butterfly's light back bestriding, Before Aurora's car you amble High in air; At noon, when Neptune's seanymphs gambol, Braid their hair; When on the tumbling billows rolling, To chase the moonbeams up the mountains Or dance with elves on brinks of fountains, Now seen with lovelorn lilies weeping, LEFTLY. FAIRY SONG. WOULD you the fairy regions see, By moonlight these their labours free, Then follow me, follow me, And the chaffer's bugle our guide shall be. LEFTLY. TO THE WATERNYMPHS, ON DRINKING AT A FOUNTAIN. REACH with your whiter hands to me And I about the cup shall see Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this; HERRICK. THE POPLAR. No watchdog disturb'd the calm season of rest, And the daybeams were faintly the mountain adorning; The night dew still hung on the eglantine's breast, And the shrill cock first broke the sweet silence of morning. To the haunts of his childhood, the scenes of his sport, A wanderer came in the stillness of sorrow, The magic of life's early vision to court, And the sweetest of hours from remembrance to borrow. But the field of his culture was dreary and wild, And drear were the bowers where the rose once was blowing; smiled, The dark weed had grown where the garden had [glowing. And a wilderness spread where late beauty was Yet one poplar survived, and was lofty and fair, 'Twas the pride of his youth, when its sun rose enchanting; And Affection had treasured his memory there, And had hallow'd his name on the tree of his planting. Unknown was the hand that thus witness'd its truth, [beaming; Unknown was the heart with affection thus But the wanderer thought on the friend of his youth, [were streaming. And his spirit was bless'd, though his tear-drops Thou flower of affection, entwining the heart, To deck the drear scene of our wanderings given; Thy balm to our grief can its healing impart, And thy blossoms of light caught their beauty from heaven. P. M. JAMES. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. AND are you sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think of wark! Mak haste, lay by your wheel; Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house |