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To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined,

Ah what is mirth but turbulence un noly, When with the charan compared of heavenly melancholy!

LVI. Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? Ah me! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born? He necds not woo the Mufe ; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page ; or mourn,

And delve for life, in Mammon's dirty mine ;
Sneak with the scoundrel fox,orgrunt with glutton swine.

For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,
And languith'd to his breath the plaintive flute,
His infant muse, though artless, was not mute :
Of elegance as yet he took no care ;
For this of time and culture is the fruit;

And Edwin gain’d at last this fruit so rare :
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,
Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, fea, or sky,
By chance, or search was offer'd to his view,
He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From Gothic tale, or fong, or fable old,
Rouz d hin still keen to listen and to pry.

At last, though long by penury controld,
And folitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,

When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;
From filent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurl’d; green


emerge ; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;

Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.**

Here pause my Gothic lyre, a little while.
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.
But if *****

on this labour smile,
New strains ere long shall animate thy frame:
And his applause to me is more than fame ;
For ftill with truth accords his taste refined.
At lucre or renown let others aim,
I only wish to please the gentle mind,
Whom Natures charms inspire, and love of humankind.

Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear of a sudden full of grass and flowers.

SCHEFFER's History of Lapland, p. 61.

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Doctrina sed vim promovet infitam,
Rectique cultus pectoro roborant.


F chance or change o let not man complain,

For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the filent dale.
All th' assault of fortune's fickle gale ;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,

And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb’d, And where th’ Atlantick rolls wide continents have

bloom'd. *

See Plato's Timeus.

But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas, we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine :
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,

Of canduur, love, or sympathy divine,
Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command,
Shall here without reluctance change my lay,
And smite'the Gothic lyre with harsher hand;
Now when I leave that flowery path for aye
Of childhood, where I fported many a-day,
Warbling and fauntering carelesly along;
face was innocent and

gay, Each vale romantick, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

IV. • Perith the lore that deadens young

defire' Is the loft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never new before. On treinbling wings let youthful fancy foar, Nor always haunt the-funny realors of joy; But now and then the shades of life explore ;

Though many a sound and fight of woe annoy. And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

Vigour from toil; from trouble patienee grows.
The weakly bloom, warm in summer bower,
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose;
But ab it withers in the chilling hour.
Mark yonder oaks : Superior to the power
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise,

And from the stormy promontory tower,

And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While cach affailing blast cocrease of strength supplies.

VI. And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice Gave dignity to Edwins blooming prime ; And walks of wider circuit was his choic, And vales more wide, and mountains more sublime. One evening as he framed the careless rhyme, It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb,

Which heretofore his foot had never trode i A vale appeared below, a deep retir'd abude.

VII. Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene; For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenced from the north and east this favage dell; Soathward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whofe long long groves eternal murmur made ; And towards the western fun a streamlet fell,

Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, survey'd Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd.

Along this narrow valley you might see
The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground,
And here and there, a solitary tree,
Or mosfy Itune, or rock with woodbine crown'd.
Oft did the cliffs reveberate the found
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ;
And from the summit of that

The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

craggy mound

One cultivated spot there was, that spread
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam,

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