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Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made ;
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honour me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !



Written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire.

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the

bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode,

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, .

To mark where a garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely em

brace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the

place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,

But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and

bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems,

A thousand wild waves on the shore !



The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ;
Thy fate is the common fate of fall,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Long fellow.


Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise ! . He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.


Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

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