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Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him— never,

That swan's nest among the reeds !

“The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.
“ And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell ;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake. The work was done, -
How soon my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,

And nevermore will be.




SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid,
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay, busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course ;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.



“Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a

theme. And, first, thy youth : what says it to gray hairs ? Narcissa, I'm become thy pupil now ;Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.




Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, “ A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies !


The shades of eve had crossed the glen

That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,

We stopped before a cottage door.

“God save all here," my comrade cries,

And rattles on the raised latch-pin; “God save you kindly,” quick replies

A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts,

A rosy girl with soft black eyes ;
Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts,

Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.

Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone,

And left the house in charge with her.

But neither household cares, nor yet

The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget

Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us in a beechen bowl

Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll

Of butter, - it gilds all my rhyme !

And, while we ate the grateful food

(With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood

Apart, and listened to the wind.

Kind wishes both our souls engaged,

From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, — we stood and pledged


“The milk we drink is not more pure,

Sweet Mary, bless those budding charms !Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,

Nor whiter than the breast it warms !”

She turned and gazed, unused to hear

Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have naught to fear,

Though smiled on by two stranger-men.

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run !

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar ?

O thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares !
Care and age come unawares !

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; -
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.


Not for a crown would I alarm

Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.

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