we tread, And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead; While, present sorrows banish'd far away, Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face, Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, And draw minutely every little wile, Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile.

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, The Royal Mary solitary sate, And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave, And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight; There did she form full many a scheme of joy, Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, And all became the surety which it seem'd; She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, In every tear a melancholy charm.

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep, With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, To see the sun rise from his healthy bed; To watch the aspect of the summer morn, Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, And taste, delighted, of superior joys, Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes: With silent admiration oft we view'd The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd; The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, And the round orb itself, in azure throne, Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone; We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, Reviving Nature hail'd returning day; Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads, And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, The birds sung pasans to the source of light: Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more Could trace him in his high aërial tour; Though on the ear, at intervals, his song Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; And we have thought how happy were our lot, Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve Began in every dell her forms to weave, We might pursue our sports from day to day, And in each other's arms wear life away.

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, We to the gloomy glen were wont to run; There on the turf we lay, while at our feet The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet; And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more; Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, Sung woe unto the wicked land—and wept; Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's 

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