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I've wandered unsheltered, deserted and lone,
For means, or a dwelling, or friends, I had none,
Yet, nature before me-the sun in the sky,
I've tasted of pleasures no money can buy :
I have bounded o'er hills unfrequented by men,

Have climbed the steep cliff, on its top to recline,
With the wide world beneath me—Oh, poverty then

Thou hast been all forgotten-what raptures were mine!


It is true other feelings, less ardent and bright,

And perhaps less refined, on my mind would intrude,
When I've paused in a simile-stoop'd in a flight,

To consider my chance for a shelter and food!
For though Hope brightly tinted as Poetry drew,
Both soothing my sorrow, if any I knew,
Yet experience must own, though a Poet is loth,
That hunger when pressing is stronger than both.
For a metaphor never could recompense me,
For a roll in the morning, fresh butter and tea;
Alas! a mere mortal, I never could hope
To dine on a simile-sup on a trope!

Yet a little sufficed me, too happy to find
The welcome and fare of a cottager kind;
And if threatened the sky-for unless when it might
That sky was my canopy all the long night-
His 100f I would share, and the morrow's first ray,
Found me fresh on the mountains, elastic and gay.


Stanzas of a Wanderer.

Thus poor and unsettled, contented and light,
Where nature was calmest and mildest I've roved;
Her image was ever the fairest in sight,

Her liberty always the life that I loved,

I have hailed her where few have beheld her before,
In the depth of wild mountains deserted and still,
Where I've gazed on the clouds moving heavily o'er,
And have utter'd my musings aloud and at will.

I have hailed her from crags that were steep to the eye,
Where the wild eagle flutter'd his wings ere he'd fly;
Where hills stretched beneath me appeared dim and gray,
And objects less great all in mistiness lay.
Oh, there as I've stood I was blest could I trace
The way I had journey-some favorite place-
A grove in the distance-a meadow of green-
A cliff, or a peak where before I had been :-
But if the loved hills of my childhood arose,
How fondly my fancy would dwell upon those!

Oh, Erin!-I've roamed through thy vallies of green,
Thy wildest of mountains my footsteps have tiod,
Yet never unfriended, unsheltered I've been,

For here Hospitality rules as a god!

A pennyless wanderer lonely, unknown,

In this simple raiment uncourtly and rough, I needed no passport to win to his throne

Save the claim of a stranger-but that was enough. Wherever in future I'm destined to rove,

Whether fate may depress me, or fortune may raise, Oh Erin!-thou region of beauty and love,

A shelterless stranger shall give thee his praise!


Yet was I all lonely-and have I forgot
My partner in travel, companion in toil,
That united his fate to my desolate lot,

And now is at rest in the mountainous soil?
Oh, Faithful my dog-ever faithful to me,

And have I forgot thee-and do I forget? Oh no! in my dreams thy mute image I see,

And waking I name thee in tears of regret! For me thou hast buffetted poverty's ills,

To follow my fortune-toils, hardships and woes, Of my crust thou hast shared on the Northern hills, And there as I slept thou hast watched my repose.

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Letter from Alcestus to Lindor.

'Twas a desolate day when you dropped at my side,
On the mountains you fell-not a cabbin was nigh;
Long-long you sustained it—but vainly 'twas tried,
For thus thou wert fated before me to die!
I bent on my knees-thy poor head I sustained,

And called thee my Faithful-and pressed thee a kiss,
One look you bestowed as thine eyes feebly strained,

Oh did it reproach me-who brought thee to this?
Oh no-'twas the look of a happier day,

Yet kinder in death, and as fate seemed to frown,
And I felt thy parched tongue as thy breath passed away,
And thy head on my boson dropp'd lifelessly down!

'Twas a desolate day when I found thou wert dead,
When press'd to my bosom it did not restore,
I blush not to own that I wept at thy head,

Till nature exhausted-would weep thee no more!
That day-on my food I bestowed little heed,

That night of my mourning-I watched at thy side,
'Twas then I bethought I was lonely indeed,

Since thou my companion-my Faithful had'st died.
I press'd thee more close as beside thee I lay,

When the ravenous birds circled over my head,
And when the wild fox skulk'd around for his prey,
I scar'd him aloof-and he howl'd as he fled!

At the morning's first light in my arms I bore thee,
And buried thee deep on a mountain above;
And oh, my poor dog! as the earth I flung o'er thee,

I thought of thy sufferings-and all for thy love!
No marble is there thy loved ashes to keep,

No sculpture announces how well thou art prais'd,
But I hurried thee darkly, and buried thee deep,
And over thy grave a rude monument rais'd.

That spot is remote among mountains of gloom,
It lies unfrequented and nearly unknown,
And oft in my fancy I view the gray tomb,
Where thou liest my Faithful-all dark and alone!

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Letter from Alcestus to Lindor.

On our minds' tablet-is th' impression gone,
By which our mutual feelings then were known?
Is there no image yet imprinted there,

That doth one thought of former moinents bear,
Which Time with his quick wing allow'd to stay,
When rushing past he swept the rest away?
And it requires but little art to bring

Back to the heart-what flutter'd at its spring!
Oh! pardon-if I wake a thought that pains,

Which, though a ruin, stands-when nothing else remains!
I would avoid that private agony,

Which dwells, mayhap, with things that ne'er may be!

Here, where no midnight revellers maintain
With lawless rule, their dissipated reign,
Where, like the moth, the hours of night aspire
To court the lamp, and round that lamp, expire-
Where Locke supplies the Cyprian's vacant place,
(What cannot Logic do in such a case)

Working a wond'rous change in thoughts and things,
Such as to vet'ran rakes, seclusion brings-

Here, I may turn a heart of purer pride
To those with whom it is so much allied!

To those with whom it dwells when mem'ry's dew
Refreshes hours long past, the happy-but the few!

Oft have I thought how stale reflection grows,
When apathy attends it to the close;
When through the vacant mind it roams at will,
But feeds on spleen, and is unsated still.—
And many a time the mind, untun'd, unfit
For all it lov'd, or all that hallow'd it-
Is as the straw upon a whirlpool's brink,
That stirs not now, but in a breath may sink-
A cold monotony of black despair,

That makes no ruin—but is embryo there-
That seeks to bury what it cannot hide,
The reason's viotim, and its suicide,—
A weary restlessness of soul and mood
That is the curse and prey of solitude-
A deep and bitter spirit of the heart,
That is the being of the vital part,
Whose breath is hot and cold-a sudden gloom
That spreads o'er all between us and the tomb;
A fearful something of the heart or head,

That mocks at living things, and fears the dead-
All these exist in weariness of mind,

When thought is dull, hope cold, and passion blind,

Poetical Epistle.

I will not blame myself or fickle fate,
That hours like these have troubl'd me of late,
But leaving causes to more studious hours,
Bind up the broken sepulchre with flowers.
In books and study we are sure to find
An antidote for the distemper'd mind;
These, these, can people solitude,-while giving
Its loneliness a tongue beyond the living.
Oh! learning is the wizard of the heart,
Ruling its deepest powers, and gentlest part-
Who has a triumph in the spell she gives,
To raise her beings over all that lives.-
But ah! these halcyon days are gone from her,
When Fame was but her hand-maid, not her sepulchre!
Oh! who shall now now revive th' augustan days?
Who from Westminster's Charnel snatch the bays
Of Genius-buried in a broken sleep,

That seldom wakes, and then awakes to weep!
Our's is a darken'd sky,-but here and there
A light'ning star-beam hurries through the air-
And these are few, whose short and wand'ring light,
Is but the flashing of a troubl'd night!

That rainbow's loveliness, whose mighty sweep
Encirel'd all, doth now enshrined sleep
In the deep shadows of its own bright home,
That giant-span which spread o'er Heaven's wide dome!
Yet it hath left behind a ling'ring trace,

A faint, pale, glory through th' ethereal space,
And o'er that track no star hath ever past,
For it shall beam alone, unequall'd, to the last!

In the dim gathering of a thunder cloud,
Surcharg'd with vivid beams that burst their shroud,
One wayward planet-formless-and alone-
Hath fix'd in gloomy greatness its impervious throne.

Like a bright eye in beauty's fairest face,

In a blue speck a sparkle holds its place,
That throws a playful lustre round its shrine,
Fair Venus! all its light-its splendors-all are thine!*

And these are now the only light we're given,
To burn along the vast, unmeasur'd, Heav'n,
Save where a fugitive or meaner star

Is kindled in the mist, or seen afar.

⚫ Lindor's discernment will discover whose characters are attempted in these three portraits.



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