For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe,
My own or others', still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.

So two nights pass'd: the night's dismay
Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O’ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stain'd with sin,-
For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with some men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.

COLERIDGE.

THE SKYLARK.

B ,
B

IRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather-blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES Hogg.

EDWARD, EDWARD.

[OLD BALLAD.]

“WHY does your brand sae drap wi' blude,

, Why does

your brand sae drap wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye,

O?" “O, I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,

Mither, mither : O, I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude:

And I hae nae mair but he, 0."

66 Your hawk's blude was never sae red,

Edward, Edward : Your hawk's blude was never sae red,

My dear son, I tell thee, 0." ** O, I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,

Mither, mither : O, I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,

That carried me fair and free, O.”

“ 'Gin

your
steed be

gane, ye hae plenty mair,

Edward, Edward, 'Gin

your steed be gane, ye hae plenty mair ;
Some ither dule

ye dree, 0." O, I hae kill'd my father dear,

Mither, mither : O, I hae kill'd my father dear,

Alas! and wae is me, 0.”

“ And whatten penance will ye dree for that,

Edward, Edward ? And whatten penance will ye dree for that ?

My dear son, now tell me, 0.” “ I'll set my feet in yonder boat,

Mither, mither : I'll set my feet in yonder boat,

And I'll fare over the sea, O.”

“And what will ye do wi' your towers and your ha',

Edward, Edward ? And what will ye do wi' your towers and your ba',

That were sae fair to see, O ?” “ I'll let them stand till they doun fa',

Mither, mither : I'll let them stand till they doun fa';

For here never mair maun I be, 0.".

“ And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,

Edward, Edward ? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,

When you gang over the sea, O ?” 66 The warld's room : let them beg through life,

Mither, mither:
The warld's room : let them beg through life;

For them never mair will I see, 0.”

“ And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,

Edward, Edward ? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear?

My dear son, now tell me, 0." • The curse of hell frae me shall bear,

Mither, mither! The curse of hell frae me shall ye bear, Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”

Percy's Reliques.

ye

ODE ON MELANCHOLY.

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous

wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

By night-shade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty-Beauty that must die ;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous

tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

KEATS.

SONNET.

THE TROSACHS.

T

'HERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass

But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes

a