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Of the hoar Canna, or, more snowy white,
The young lamb frisking in the joy of life,-
O grief! a garden, all unlike, I ween,
To that where bloomed the fair Hesperides,
Usurped the seat of Nature, while a wall

Of most bedazzling splendour, o'er whose height,
The little birds, content to flit along

From bush to bush, could never dare to fly,
Preserved from those who knew no ill intent,
Fruit-trees exotic, and flowers passing rare,
Less lovely far than many a one that bloomed
Unnoticed in the woods.

And lo! a house,

An elegant villa! in the Grecian style !
Doubtless contrived by some great architect
Who had an Attic soul; and in the shade
Of Academe or the Lyceum walked,
Forming conceptions fair and beautiful.
Blessed for ever be the sculptor's art!
It hath created guardian deities

To shield the holy building,-heathen gods
And goddesses, at which the peasant stares
With most perplexing wonder; and light Fauns
That the good owner's unpoetic soul
Could not among the umbrage of the groves
Imagine, here, for ever in his sight,

In one unwearied posture frisk in stone.

My friend, quoth I, forgive these words of mine,

That haply seem more sportive than becomes
A soul that feels for Nature's sanctity

Thus blindly outraged; but when evil work

Admits no remedy, we then are glad

Even from ourselves to hide, in mirth constrained,
An unavailing sorrow. Oh! my friend,

Hadst thou beheld, as I, the glorious rock
By that audacious mansion hid for ever,
-Glorious I well might call it, with bright bands
Of flowers, and weeds as beautiful as flowers
Refulgent, crowned, as with a diadem,
With oaks that loved their birth-place, and alive
With the wild tones of echo, bird, and bee,—
Thou couldst have wept to think that paltry Art
Could so prevail o'er Nature, and weak man

Thus stand between thee and the works of God.
Well might the Naiad of that stream complain!
The glare of day hath driven her from her haunts,
Shady no more: The woodman's axe hath cleared
The useless hazels where the linnet hung

Her secret nest; and yon hoar waterfall,

Whose misty spray rose through the freshened leaves
To heaven, like Nature's incense, and whose sound
Came deadened through the multitude of boughs
Like a wild anthem by some spirit sung,
Now looks as cheerless as the late-left snow
Upon the mountain's breast, and sends a voice,
From the bare rocks, of dreariness and woe.
See! farther down the streamlet, art hath framed
A delicate cascade! The channel stones
Hallowed by rushing waters, and more green
Even than the thought of greenness in the soul,
Are gone; and pebbles, carefully arranged
By size and colour, at the bottom lie
Imprisoned; while a smooth and shaven lawn,
With graceful gravel walks most serpentine,
Surrounds the noisy wonder, and sends up
A smile of scorn unto the rocky fells,

Where, 'mid the rough fern, bleat the sheltered sheep.

Oft hath the poet's eye on these wild fells
Beheld entrancing visions ;-but the cliffs,
In unscaled majesty, must frown no more;
No more the coves profound draw down the soul
Into their stern dominion: even the clouds,
Floating or settling on the mountain's breast,
Must be adored no more :-far other forms
Delight his gaze, to whom, alas, belongs
This luckless vale.-On every eminence,
Smiles some gay image of the builder's soul,
Watch-tower or summer-house, where oft, at eve,
He meditates to go, with book in hand,
And read in solitude; or weather-cock,

To tell which way the wind doth blow; or fort,
Commanding every station in the vale

Where enemy might encamp, and from whose height
A gaudy flag might flutter, when he hears
With a true British pride of Frenchmen slain,
Ten thousand in one battle, lying grim
By the brave English, their dead conquerors!

Such was the spirit of the words I used
On witnessing such sacrilege. We turned
Homewards in silence, even as from the grave
Of one in early youth untimely dead,
And all that to my pensive friend I said
Upon our walk, were some few words of grief,
That thoughtlessness and folly, in one day,
Could render vain the mystic processes
Of Nature, working for a thousand years
The work of love and beauty; so that Heaven
Might shed its gracious dews upon the earth,
Its sunshine and its rain, till living flowers
Rose up in myriads to attest its power,
But, in the midst of this glad jubilee,

A blinded mortal came, and with a nod,
Thus rendering ignorance worse than wickedness,
Bid his base servants "tear from Nature's book
A blissful leaf with worst impiety."

If thou, whose heart has listened to my song,
From Nature hold'st some fair inheritance
Like that whose mournful ruins I deplore,
Remember that thy birthright doth impose
High duties on thee, that must be performed,
Else thou canst not be happy. Thou must watch
With holy zeal o'er Nature while she sleeps,
That nought may break her rest; her waking smiles
Thou must preserve and worship; and the gloom
That sometimes lies like night upon her face,
Creating awful thoughts, that gloom must hush
The beatings of thy heart, as if it lay
Like the dread shadow of eternity.

Beauteous thy home upon this beauteous earth,
And God hath given it to thee: therefore, learn
The laws by which the Eternal doth sublime
And sanctify his works, that thou mayest see
The hidden glory veiled from vulgar eyes,
And by the homage of enlightened love,

Repay the power that blest thee. Thou shouldst stand
Ofttimes amid thy dwelling-place, with awe
Stronger than love, even like a pious man
Who in some great cathedral, while the chant
Of hymns is in his soul, no more beholds
The pillars rise august and beautiful,
Nor the dim grandeur of the roof that hangs

Far, far above his head, but only sees

The opening heaven-gates, and the white-robed bands
Of spirits prostrate in adoring praise.

So shalt thou to thy death-hour find a friend,
A gracious friend in Nature, and thy name,
As the rapt traveller through thy fair domains
Oft-lingering journeys, shall with gentle voice
Be breathed amid the solitude, and linked
With those enlightened spirits that promote
The happiness of others by their own,
The consummation of all earthly joy.

MELROSE ABBEY.

It was not when the sun through the glittering sky, In summer's joyful majesty,

Looked from his cloudless height;

It was not when the sun was sinking down,
And tinging the ruin's mossy brown
With gleams of ruddy light ;-

Nor yet when the moon, like a pilgrim fair,
'Mid star and planet journeyed slow,

And, mellowing the stillness of the air,

Smiled on the world below ;

That, MELROSE! 'mid thy mouldering pride,
All breathless and alone,

I grasped the dreams to day denied,

High dreams of ages gone!

Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there,

His heart had turned to stone!

For oft, though felt no moving gale,

Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud,
Through lofty Oriel opening pale

Was seen the hurrying cloud;

And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall
Frowned black as bier's mysterious pall
From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer;
It seemed as if sound had ceased to be;
Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree,
Relieved the noiseless ear.

The owl had sailed from her silent tower,
Tweed hushed his weary wave,

The time was midnight's moonless hour,
My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave!

My being was sublimed by joy,
My heart was big, yet I could not weep;
I felt that God would ne'er destroy
The mighty in their tranced sleep.
Within the pile no common dead
Lay blended with their kindred mould;

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