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I have walked through wilderness dreary
And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a fairy,
Up to thee would I fly.

There's madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveler as I...

Happy, happy liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

THE CHASE.-SCOTT.

The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;
But, when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,

And faint, from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

As chief, who hears his warder call,
"To arms! the foeman storm the wall,”

The antlered monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,

The dew-drops from his flanks he shook;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuffed the tainted gale,
A moment listened to the cry,

That thickened as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appeared,
With one brave bound the copse he cleared,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

Yelled on the view the opening pack;
Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back;
To many a mingled sound at once
The awakened mountain gave response.
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong,
Clattered a hundred steeds along,
Their peal the merry horns rung out,
A hundred voices joined the shout;
With hark and whoop and wild halloo,
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew.
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
Close in her covert cowered the doe,
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
Cast on the rout a wandering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint, and more faint, its failing din
Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.

Less loud the sounds of silvan war
Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var,
And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told,
A giant made his den of old;
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,

And many a gallant, stayed perforce,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
And of the trackers of the deer,
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly on the mountain side,
Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

The noble stag was pausing now,
Upon the mountain's southern brow,
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wandered o'er
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor,
And pondered refuge from his toil,
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copsewood gray,
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigor with the hope returned,
With flying foot the heath he spurned,
Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.

THE TWO COMETS.-BRAINARD.

There were two visible at the time this was written; and for the verses, they were, on other accounts, strictly occasional,

There once dwelt in Olympus some notable oddities, For their wild singularities called gods and goddessesBut one in particular beat 'em all hollow,

Whose name, style, and title, was Phoebus Apollo.

Now Phœb. was a genius-his hand he could turn
To any thing, every thing genius can learn :
Bright, sensible, graceful, cute, spirited, handy,
Well-bred, well-behaved-a celestial dandy!
An eloquent god, though he didn't say much;

But he drew a long bow, spoke Greek, Latin and Dutch;
A doctor, a poet, a soarer, a diver,

And of horses in harness an excellent driver.

He would tackle his steeds to the wheels of the sun,
And he drove up the east every morning but one ;
When young Phaeton begged of his daddy at five,
To stay with Aurora a day, and he'd drive.

So good-natured Phoebus gave Phaey the seat,

With his mittens, change, waybill, and stage-horn complete;
To the breeze of the morning he shook his bright locks,
Blew the lamps of the night out, and mounted the box.
The crack of his whip, like the breaking of day,
Warmed the wax in the ears of the leaders, and they
With a snort, like the fog of the morning, cleared out
For the west, as young Phaey meant to get there about
Two hours before sunset.

He looked at his "turnip,"
And to make the delay of the old line concern up,
He gave 'em the reins; and from Aries to Cancer,
The style of his drive on the road seemed to answer;
But at Leo, the ears of the near wheel-horse pricked,
And at Virgo the heels of the off leader kicked
Over Libra the whiffle-tree broke in the middle,
And the traces snapped short, like the strings of a fiddle.
One wheel struck near Scorpio, who gave it a roll,
And sent it to buzz, like a top, round the pole ;
While the other whizzed back with its linchpin and hub,
Or, more learnedly speaking, its nucleus or nub;
And, whether in earnest, or whether in fun,
He carried away a few locks of the sun.

The state of poor Phaeton's coach was a blue one,
And Jupiter ordered Apollo a new one ;

But our driver felt rather too proud to say "Whoa,"
Letting horses, and harness, and every thing go
At their terrified pleasure abroad; and the muse
Says, they cut to this day just what capers they choose;
That the eyes of the chargers as meteors shine forth;
That their manes stream along in the lights of the north;
That the wheels which are missing are comets, that run
As fast as they did when they carried the sun;
And still pushing forward, though never arriving,
Think the west is before them, and Phaeton driving.

THE GNOME AND THE PADDOCK.-BRAINARD,

I am a Gnome, and this old granite ledge
My home and habitation since the days
When the big floods brake up, and massy rain
Fell, deluge upon deluge, to the earth,-
When lightning, hot and hissing, crinkled by
Each scathed and thunder-blasted twig that shewed
Its leaf above the waters. Years had passed
And centuries too, when by this sheltered side
The Indian built his fire and ate his samp,
And laid him down-how quietly-beneath
The shadow of this rock.
And in a weary land. For yonder where
The school boy flies his kite, and little girls
Seek four leaved clover-there the Buffalo

"Twas great to him

Led his wild herd. There once and only once
The mammoth stalked.

Thou Paddock heard'st his tread,
very rock-

But I,-I saw him. By this

This little ledge he passed. Three stately steps!
And every rough and wooded promontory

Trembled.

And for his voice--'twas musical,

And though too sonorous for human ear,
Yet to a Gnome 'twas wondrous--exquisite,
For every vein of undiscovered ore
Rang in full harmony to that bold tone.
From the wild surface to the lowest depth
And through and round the pillar of the earth
Were silver streaks and golden radiants

That trembled through their courses, when a note
Congenial waked their low, sweet, solemn sound.

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