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THE lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight

Waits in his halls the event of fight;
For England's war revered the claim
Of every unprotected name,
And spared, amid its fiercest rage,
Childhood, and womanhood, and age.
But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foc,
Must the dear privilege forego,
By Greta's side, in evening gray,
To steal upon Matilda's way,
Striving, with fond hypocrisy,
For careless step and vacant eye;
Calming each anxious look and glance,
To give the meeting all to chance,
Or framing, as a fair excuse,
The book, the pencil, or the muse ;
Something to give, to sing, to say,
Some modern tale, some ancient lay.
Then, while the longed-for minutes last,—
Ah! minutes quickly over-past!—
Recording each expression free,
Of kind or careless courtesy,
Each friendly look, each softer tone,

As food for fancy when alone.
All this is o'er-but still, unseen,
Wilfrid may
lurk in Eastwood green,
To watch Matilda's wonted round,
While springs his heart at every sound.

She comes-'tis but a passing sight,
Yet serves to cheat his weary night;
She comes not—he will wait the hour,
When her lamp lightens in the tower;
'Tis something yet, if, as she passed,
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast.
"What is my life, my hope?" he said;
"Alas! a transitory shade.'


Thus wore his life, though reason strove
For mastery in vain with love,
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum
Of present woe and ills to come,
While still he turned impatient ear
From Truth's intrusive voice severe.
Gentle, indiff'rent, and subdued,
In all but this, unmoved he viewed
Each outward change of ill and good:
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild,
Was Fancy's spoiled and wayward child;
In her bright car she bade him ride,
With one fair form to grace his side,
Or, in some wild and lone retreat,
Flung her high spells around his seat,
Bathed in her dews his languid head,
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread,
For him her opiates gave to flow,
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego,
And placed him in her circle, free
From every stern reality,

Till, to the Visionary, seem

Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream.

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains,
Winning from Reason's hand the reins,
Pity and woe! for such a mind
Is soft, contemplative, and kind;
And woe to those who train such youth,
And spare to press the rights of truth,
The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stithy glows the steel!
O teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glowed with promised good:
Remind him of each wish enjoyed,
How soon his hopes possession cloyed!
Tell him, we play unequal game,
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim!
And, ere he strip him for her race,
Show the conditions of the chase.
Two sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret:
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize;
While one augments its gaudy show
More to enhance the loser's woe.
The victor sees his fairy gold
Transformed, when won, to drossy mould,
But still the vanquished mourns his loss,
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.

More wouldst thou know-yon tower survey,
Yon couch unpressed since parting day,
Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam

Is mingling with the cold moonbeam,
And yon thin form!-the hectic red
On his pale cheek unequal spread;
The head reclined, the loosened hair,
The limbs relaxed, the mournful air.-
See, he looks up;—a woful smile
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while,—
'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought,
To gild the ruin she has wrought;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes,
Her pinions fan the wound she makes,
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein.
Now to the lattice turn his eyes,
Vain hope! to see the sun arise.
The moon with clouds is still o’ercast ;
Still howls by fits the stormy blast;
Another hour must wear away,
Ere the East kindle into day;
And hark! to waste that weary hour,
He tries the minstrel's magic power.

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Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place—

Oh 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

Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Horace Smith.


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thou hast walked about how strange a story!

In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago! When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

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