1821.] 



Newx from Puniassiii . ,3^0. VI. 



How must the anxious bosom beat, 



That 8ia;'hs at Death's retistless power, 



AJaithfuJ friend Ei^in to meet, 



Fresh blooming- in a spotless flower. 



It sure would thrill the lover's heart, '" 

 ^Mieu kneelinj^ on his fair one's grave, 



To feel tue lily's breaih impart 

 The raptured kiss liis Myra gave ! 



The love that in my bosom glows. 



Will li\e, when I shall Ions: he dead ; 



And haply, tinge some budding rose. 

 That blushes o'er my grassy bed. 



thou, who hast so lougbeeu dear 1 

 When I shall cease to smile on thee, 



1 know that thou wilt linger near. 



With pensive soul to sigh for me. 

 Yes, Lalra, come! and with thee bring 



To soothe my shade, young flowerets 

 fair ; 

 Give them around my grave to spring. 



And watch them with a lover's care : 



Thy gentle hand will sweets bestow. 



Transcending Eden's boasted bloom ; 

 Each flower with brighter tints shall glow, 



Wlien Love and Beauty seek my tomb. 

 And when the rose-bud's gentle breath. 



With virgin fragrance scents the air. 

 Imagine me released from Death, 



And all my soul still hovering there. 



Inhale the dewy sweets at morn. 



For they to thee shall transport give ; 



Thus Edwin's love on odours borne. 

 Still in his LiUR.x's breast shall live. 



When we bpfiran this analysis we 

 mtended to have jiiven many more 

 extracts, but we find that we have 

 already nearly filled the space which 

 was allotted us. The verses '• To a 

 Primrose" and " To a Robin," are 

 exquisitely tender ; the latter more pe- 

 culiarly so, as alluding to the situa- 

 tion of the author: — his pecuniary 

 prospects unexpectedly blasted by ad- 

 verse circumstances, and his limbs 

 rendered torpid by paralysis ; while 

 the mind remains unimpaired to brood 

 over his misfortunes. There are a few 

 Scotch poems, solely, it would seem, 

 to make us r«gret that there are not 

 more. But we must close the volume, 

 and we do so as the author himself has 

 done: 



CONCLUSION. 



A sad, a long farewell — dear, artless lyre ! 

 My trembling hand now vainly strikes 

 thy strings ; 

 The frost of age has chilled my wonted fire; 

 No longer glides the stream from Fancy's 

 springs : 

 And waving wide her raven-coloured 

 wings, 

 Dnll ■Melancholy hovers o'er my head ; 



425 



Pareut of phantom shapes, and shadowy 

 things, 

 That.crowd the path my weary feet nuist 



With visionary forms — of joys for ever 



For Mcm'ry still, with fond rt'^k, will 

 rove '''"■' .^':'' '-'-■'■'■' '"'- '.' - 

 By sea-beat shdtd:'/ grey ro6k, or wind- 

 ing stream ; 



Again she guides me to the woodland 



\Vhere Fancy whisperea toany a youth- 

 ful dream ; 

 But ah '. it is the meteor's fleeting gleam, 



Portentous, shooting o'er a stormy sky ; 



Where no kind star displays its cheering 



beam, 



To glad the weary wanderer's hopeless 



. . eye, 



Or point his trackless way, where dreary 



deserts lie. 

 For ah ! no more to me the boon is given, 

 To mark the varied charms of Nature's 

 face ; 

 Abroad, to bre:ithe the balmy air of heaven, 



My fond eye gazing over ample space : 

 From virgin Spring, to Autumn's matron 

 grace. 

 To me, alas ! each blossom blows in vain ; 

 No more my feet the mountain path can 

 trace. 

 Nor brush the dew-drops from the daisied 

 plain ; 

 My trembling limbs fast locked, in adaman- 

 tine chain ! 

 And yet, these limbs in chilling torpor 

 bound, 

 A shade can startle — and a breath can 

 shake ; 

 The throbbing heart heaves at a passing 

 sound, 

 As ruffling winds disturb the glassy lake ; 

 At trivial ills the shattered frame will quake. 

 Each quivering nerve with keen sensa- 

 tion thrill, 

 And feelings exquisite, to anguish wake. 

 The sigh, the tear, triumphing o'er flic 

 will, 

 \A'hile Reason vainly tries, to hush the 



tempest still. 

 Yet kind companion of my happier days, 

 Thou hast not scorned me in this evil 

 hour ; 

 Thy song has soothed me in the wildering 

 maze. 

 And strewed my tiresome couch with 

 many a flower. 

 Enchantress! stay — haply, thy magic 

 power 

 Again may chase my lingering hours of 

 care ; 

 May shew my sorrows, like an April 

 shower — 

 A passing cloud, the pilgrim to prepare 

 For scenes of endless day, and skies for 

 ever fair. 



To 



