And in the east, where earth and heaven are blending,
With bright cloud-banners ushering his way,
A gorgeous troop! Lo! the steep sky ascending,
Bursts on the ravished sight the King of Day!
Ten thousand purple streams before him play,
And pour profuse their light o'er sea and land;
The glad earth rings with melody,-th' array
Of flowers beams forth in many a beauteous band,
And the small silver waves leap laughing o'er the strand.
How gaily now shines forth th' enamell'd mead!
The
grass blades gleam like troops of tiny spears;
The budded aspen quivers in the shade;
The dewy crocus, smiling through her tears,
Glancing her golden locks in groups appears;
Along the margin of the murmuring stream,
The daisy (day star of the earth!) uprears
Her snowy bosom; and with modest gleam
Young lilies now awake to greet the morning beam.
Oh! what a world of wisdom may be drawn
Even from the springing of a single flower!
By fountain side, on hill, and vale, and lawn,
Thick as the motes that move in sunny shower,
What thoughts on him doth Contemplation pour
Who looks on Nature with the eye of love!
Still be it mine at morning's magic hour,
And when soft evening dims the twilight grove, These sacred thoughts to feel and all their influence prove.
High in the azure heavens now rides the sun,
The wakening breeze sweeps o'er the fresh'ning sea,
The labourer hath his daily toil begun,
And whistles as he treads the furrow'd lea:
The city's nearing turrets now I see,
There let me seek my lowly home again,
Nor grieve that it is lowly, since to me
One hour of Nature's converse, one sweet strain,
Is dearer far than all that wealth or power can gain.
UNDER WHOSE DISPLEASURE I OCCASIONALLY SUFFERED,
ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.
I might swear ye were winsome and bonny,
I might vow ye were witty and braw;
That your e'en were the bluest of ony,
And your brow was the hue o' the snaw-
That your lips were as red as the rowan,
Hanging ripe in the wide sunny glen:
But a' this he that sees you maun own,
And ilk ane that hears ye maun ken.
I've seen you look winsome and smiling,
I've seen you look-no pleas'd ava'—
And your smile, though it's sweet and beguiling,
Yet your frown is the dearest of a'!
I've heard your voice sounding as saftly
As the mavis at eve frae the thorn,
But wi' rapture it sets me maist daft ay,
To hear the dear notes o' your scorn!
For, oh! there's a fire in ilk feature,
There's the soul glancing sheen through your e'e; There's a melody rings in your satire,
That is dearer than kindness to me.
Then, sweet lassie! bewitch ilka ither,
Wi' that kind glance that nane can withstan'; But to me ilka time we forgather,
Speak as keen, look as dour as ye can.
WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF YARROW.
Who hath not felt the magic spell,
Which in our olden measures dwell,
A music quaint and wild?
Who doth not feel his bosom bound-
To tread some ancient battle ground,
With cairns of chieftains pil'd?
Though centuries enshroud the tale,
Who doth not weep to hear the wail
Some gray-hair'd minstrel sings?
For grief is an undying flower,
Which, water'd by each passing shower
Of feeling,-freshly springs!
Even I, whose visions all are gone,
Whose dreams of fame with youth have flown,
Feel o'er my swelling breast-
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