STANZAS. THE Sun is warm, the sky is clear, Like many a voice of one delight, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd— Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live, and call life pleasure: To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his [head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his glory. SONG. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be! And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak, thou dost not say If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may sooth this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn JAMES HOGG. 1770-1835. KILMENY. BONNY KILMENY gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree: For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame! When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedes-man had prayed, and the deadbell Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, [rung, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, "Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought baith holt and den; By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen? That bonny snood of the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?" Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, And oh, her beauty was fair to see, |