VII.

The grave is silent-and the far-off sky,

And the deep midnight :- silent all, and lone!

Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

What voice has earth ?-Hear, pity, speak! mine own!

Answer me, answer me !

PIERCEFIELD.

GLIDE, Vaga, gently glide, where Llancot's plain,
More prodigal in beauty than the dreams
Of fantasy, reclines beneath the chain

Of mingled wood and precipice, that seems
To buttress up the wave, whose silvery gleams
Stretch far beyond, where Severn leads his train,
Pampered and gorgeous with the thousand streams
Of Cambria, to confront the' Hibernian main.

O mine own England! the more known more dear,
Still let me cling to thy maternal breast
Through life's decline: and when the hour to die
Shall sever us, a guardian power be nigh,-
A voice to whisper in my dying ear,-
Come--the Redeemer calls thee to his rest!

H.

Published by Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown & Green 1829.

Printed by & Bran

EPISTLE FROM ABBOTSFORD.

If your bold word be crowned with welcome deed,
You'll find us half a bow-shot from the Tweed,
Where, softer than the murmur of a dream,
O'er snow-white pebbles floats the sylvan stream,
And seems as loath to leave her poet's trees
As you could feel to lift an axe on these-
His darling oaks, the children of his hand,
The grace, and destined guardians of the land,
Wherewith his careful love hath painted o'er
In living hues of green, what was before
The roughness of an uncontrasted moor;
And taught the lore at once of sense and taste,
To twenty brother Barons of the waste.-

High streaming in the breeze that sweeps their shade, When the kind bard's at home, his flag's displayed—