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SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BORN, 1771; DIED, 1832.

LOCH KATRINE.

THE summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;
Mildly and soft the western breeze

Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,
And the pleas'd lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled, but dimpled not for joy;
The mountain shadows on her breast
Were neither broken nor at rest;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to fancy's eye.
The water-lily to the light

Her chalice reared of silver bright;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn;
The gray mist left the mountain side,
The torrent show'd its glist'ning pride;
Invisible in flecked sky,

The lark sent down her revelry;

The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;
In answer cooed the cushat dove,
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

MOUNTAIN SCENERY.

THE western waves of ebbing day
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way:
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravine below,

Where twined the path, in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell

Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;

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MOUNTAIN SCENERY.

Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the Pass;

Huge as the tower which builders vain,
Presumptuous, piled on Shinar's plain,
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seem'd fantastically set.
With cupola or minaret,

Crests--wild as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were those earth-born castles bare,
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair,
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd,
Far o'er th' unfathomable glade,

All twinkling with the dew-drops sheen,
The brier-rose fell in streamers green,
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.

Boon Nature scattered, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child,
Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale and violet flower
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Night-shade and fox-glove, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.

With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath.

Aloft, the ash and warrior oak

Cast anchor in the rifted rock;

And higher yet the pine-tree hung

His scattered trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow sky.

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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

BORN, 1772; DIED, 1834.

LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.

ONCE more, sweet stream! with slow foot wandering near,
I bless thy milky waters, cold and clear,
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours;
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn),
My languid hand shall wreathe thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe, around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve, with pensive look,
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook;
Or starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread,
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful stream! thy fount, with pebbled falls,
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of hope arose,
And all was joy, save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 、
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive moon.
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along.

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He turned aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,
By a gray mountain's stream; just elevate
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene,
In early summer, when those antic trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green.
But, save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate, and now all wore

One sober hue; the narrow vale, which wound
Among the hills, was gray with rocks, that peered
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was with loose stones bestrewn, which oftentimes
Sliding beneath the foot of straggling goat,
Clattered adown the steep; or huger crags,
Which, when the coming frost should loosen them,
Would thunder down. All things assorted well
With that gray mountain hue; the low stone lines,
Which scarcely seemed to be the work of man,
The dwelling, rudely reared with stones unhewn,
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees,
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash,
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock,
Where they had forced their way. Adown the vale,
Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed,
Rolled the loud mountain stream.

THOMAS

CAMPBELL.

BORN, 1777; DIED, 1843.

DESCRIPTION OF ALBERT'S HOME.

A VALLEY, from the river shore withdrawn,
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between,
Whose lofty verdure overlook'd his lawn;
And waters to their resting place serene
Came fresh'ning and refreshing all the scene;
(A mirror in the depths of flowery shelves :)
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)
Have guessed some congregation of the elves,
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,
Nor vistas open'd by the wandering stream;
Both where at evening Allegany views,
Through ridges burning in the western beam,
Lake after lake interminably gleam;

And past those settler's haunts the eye might roam,
Where earth's unliving silence all would seem;
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,
Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home.

THOMAS MOORE.

BORN, 1780.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

OH! to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the isle of Chenars,
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet,

From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet,

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