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We break from the tree-groups; a glade deep with grass;
The white clover's breath loads the sense as we pass,
A sparkle—a streak—a broad glitter is seen
The bright Callikoon through its thickets of green!
We rush to the banks—its sweet music we hear,
Its gush, dash and gurgle all blent to the ear,
No shadows are drawn by the cloud cover'd sun,
We plunge in the crystal, our sport is begun;
Our line where that ripple shoots onward, we throw,
It sweeps to the foam-spangled eddy below,
A tremor—a pull—the trout upward is thrown,
He swings to our basket—the prize is our own.
We pass the still shallows—a plunge at our side—
The dive of the muskrat, its terror to hide;
A clamor is heard, spots are darting from sight—
The duck with her brood speeding on in affright;
A rush—the quick water-snipe cleaving the air—
We pass the still shallows—our prey is not there.
But here, where the trunk stretches half o'er the brook,
And slumbers the pool in a leaf-shadow’d nook,
Where eddies are dimpling and circling away,
Steal gently, for here lies the king of our prey.
Throw stilly—if greater the sound meets his ear
Than the burst of a bubble, you strike him with fear:
How cautious his touch of the death-hiding bait,
The rod now is trembling; wait! patiently wait!
A pull—raise your line, yet most gently—"twill bring
The credulous victim more sure to his spring,
A jerk, and the angle is bent to its length,
Play the line from the reel or 'twill break with his strength!
He darts round in foam, but his vigor is past,
Draw steadily to you—you’ll have him at last!
Raise up, but beware that strong struggle and gasp,
And the noble snar'd creature is filling your grasp.
How bright with the water-gloss glitters the pride,
Of his brown clouded back, red and gold spotted side'
But we leave the reft scene of the dead monarch’s reign
Like a despot that moves on to triumph again.
The voice of the rapid now burthens the air,
Approach, for our prey's crowded city is there !
Here whirlpools, there eddies, here stillness, there foam,
We ply well our efforts—no further we roam ;
Our baskets we fill, but our muscles are tired,
And a shade in the sky tells that day has expired;
The robin has chanted his vespers and flown;
The frog from the creek has commenc'd his trombone;
The spider has ceas'd his slight furrow to show;
The brown sprawling shrimp seeks the pebbles below
The bank then we clamber, our home-path resume,
The torch-bearing fire-fly to lighten the gloom,
And dreams of our sleep-fetter'd pillow restore
Our day-sport, distorted but pleasing, once more.
NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang’d nor wished to change his place: Unpractic’d he to fawn or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill’dtoraise the wretched than to rise ; His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings but reliev'd their pain : The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim’d kindred there, and had his claim allow’d; The broken soldier kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire and talk’d the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew’d how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave 'ere charity began: Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he felt and pray’d for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new fledg’d offspring to the skies; He try’d each art, reprov’d each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay’d, The reverend champion stood, at his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt’ring accents whisper’d praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray:
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
E’en children follow’d with endearing wile,
And pluck’d his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring;-
Then pressed that monarch's throne,—a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden’s garden bird.
An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentry's shriek,
“To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek P”
He woke—to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan and sabre stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast,
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band,
“Strike—till the last armed foe expires;
Strike—for your altars and your fires;
Strike—for the green graves of your sires,
God—and your native land.”
They fought—like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein:
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud—“hurrah,”
And the red field was won,
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals,
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption’s ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;-
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible-–the tear
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word,
And in its hollow tones, are heard—
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glorys’ time,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom’s now and Fame’s–
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
WHERE Calpe frowns, where Etna flames on high,
Where Mocha’s minarets salute the eye;
And where the billows of the ocean roll
O'er half the globe and flow from pole to pole—
Where’er he sail’d o'er Neptune's old domain,
A Briton saw, but with a patriot’s pain, f
America’s proud Flag displayed to view,
Her thirty stars, and in a field of blue
Proclaim’d her freedom to each distant zone;
“Alas!” he sigh'd, “their ships surpass our own,
And we must tolerate, that rebels thus
On our own element should vie with us.”
When lo! he saw, or thought he saw, arise,
For sleep no doubt had seal’d his angry eyes,
The Genius of the Deep, and heard him say,
Why are ye not high-spirited as they?
To see your younger brothers free and great,
Should rouse your energy, but not your hate;
Brittannia’s sons shall ever rule the waves,
But 'tis those sons that are no longer slaves;
They—only they—brave Death in ev'ry form,
And ride in triumph thro’ the impetuous storm;
Who bold in conscious independence stand,
Nor bend the knee to kiss a royal hand;
Subjects are slaves, tho' in a mild degree;
But only citizens are dear to me; -
And them I love the most who most are free,
And give to them the Empire of the Sea.
THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN FITZ-JAMES AND THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
AND now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb with footing nice,
A far projecting precipice;
The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish’d sheet of living gold,
Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled;
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light;
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To centinel enchanted land.
High on the south, huge Benvenue
Down to the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl’d,
The fragments of an earlier world;