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Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration: with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray-sustain her

Several of the band (eagerly.) Captain!

Mar. No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,

Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The spectre of that innocent man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on -
A man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life-till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and mercy gives me leave to die.

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juvenile poems.

Note 1, p. 25.

within the last two or three months unregarded among Of the Poems in this class, “The EVENING WALK” my papers, without being mentioned even to my most and " Descriptive SKETCHES” were first published in intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alte- my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., rations that were chiefly made very soon after their I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishpublication

. It would have been easy to amend them, ing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly and I have not been altogether able to resist the temp it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at tation : but attempts of this kind are made at the risk first written, and is now published, without any view to of injuring those characteristic features which, after all, its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration will be regarded as the principal recommendation of has been made in the conduct of the story, or the com

position of the characters; above all, in respect to the

two leading persons of the drama, I felt no inducement Note 2, p. 39.

to make any change. The study of human nature sug. * And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.'

gests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life

subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their From a short MS. poem read to me when an under

very opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the graduate

, by my schoolfellow and friend, Charles Farish, hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the underlong since deceased. The verses were by a brother of

standing to which they may carry their slaves. During bis, a man of promising genius, who died young. my long residence in France, while the revolution was

rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had Note 3, p. 45.

frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this "The Borderers.'

process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its title-page, was upon my memory, that the Tragedy of “The Borderers" composed in 1795–6. It lay nearly from that time till / was composed. — 1842.


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Primroses, the spring may love them –
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

Float near me: do not yet depart ! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bringest, gay Creature as thou art: A solemn image to my heart, My Father's Family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My Sister Emmeline and I Together chased the Butterfly ! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:-with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.

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Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity,
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's


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I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp ’larum; -- but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were cover'd with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,--and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves !

No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs, without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow with me,
You shall go the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Iler Lrother now takes up the note, And echoes back his Sister's glee; They hug the Infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

– But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read, - but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

- Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there Ile may work his own will, and what shall we care ?

We told o'er all that we had done,
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, Anil 56 11 since Mother went away!"

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There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

“And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways?"
“To Durham," answered she, half wild -
“ Then come with me into the chaise."

Insensible to all relief
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

My child, in Durham do you dwell ?”
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, “My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
Again, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak !

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she had lost her only friend,
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old.

6 And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell !"
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!


Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
- The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

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