The Naiad's Wreath : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> The Naiad's Wreath : electronic version. M'Mullan, Maryanne. Electronic text encoded by Charlotte Payne Electronic edition 90Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2009 mmulmnaiad

This edition is the property of the editors. It may be copied freely by individuals for personal use, research, and teaching (including distribution to classes) as long as this statement of availability is included in the text. It may be linked to by internet editions of all kinds.

Scholars interested in changing or adding to these texts by, for example, creating a new edition of the text (electronically or in print) with substantive editorial changes, may do so with the permission of the publisher. This is the case whether the new publication will be made available at a cost or free of charge.

This text may not be not be reproduced as a commercial or non-profit product, in print or from an information server.

Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 180 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The naiad's wreath. M'Mullan, Maryanne. by Mrs. M'Mullan. Longman, Hurst, Rees and Co. London T. Egerton London E. Lloyd London 1816

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis, Kohler I:773. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:773mf.

All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved with the exception of original prose line breaks and line-end hyphens (except in headings and title pages), lines of poetry divided due to length of line, running heads, signature markings, smallcaps, and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. The long "s" is displayed as a standard "s". Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved.

French Italian Latin December 9, 2009 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. THE NAIAD'S WREATH.

FIVE SHILLINGS.

[Title Page]

THE NAIAD'S WREATH. BY MRS. M'MULLAN. "I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind." BEATTIE. London: Printed by W. Clowes, Northumberland-court, Strand; FOR MESSRS. LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND CO. PATERNOSTER ROW; T. EGERTON, WHITEHALL; AND E. LLOYD; HARLEY-STREET.1816. TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES, AND OF SAXE COBOURG SAALFELD, THE MONARCH'S HOPE, THE NATION'S PRIDE, WHO TO DIGNITY ADDS PATRIOTISM, AND TO VIRTUE EVERY ATTRACTION, THIS SIMPLE WREATH IS, BY PERMISSION, INSCRIBED, WITH THE MOST RESPECTFUL GRATITUDE,

By Her Royal Highness's faithfully devoted Servant, MARY ANNE M'MULLAN. London, Sept. 18, 1816. TO THE READER.

ONE of the most revered British Poets asserts that the "touch and re-touch" is essential to the polish of verse. Not in the least degree sceptical on the subject, this Wreath is presented with trembling diffidence, as neither kind Bard, nor Literary Friend, has inspected its leaves, nor remedied its defects.

The approbation bestowed on the Writer's former publication demands her gratitude, as it forms her pride, and a candid acknowledgment of having derived no assistance in revision, encourages her still to hope the Reader's pardon for deficiencies and exuberances, both which will, doubtless, be discovered in an offering selected from the spontaneous production of Nature, and arranged by a hand unacquainted with Art.

THE NAIAD'S WREATH, &c. &c. TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS The Princess Charlotte. May 2, 1816. BRITANNIA, smiling, view'd her sea-girt realm, Saw her blest Regent guide th' important helm; So bright the diadem, with glory's rays, That, though she mourn'd her monarch's clouded days, High throbb'd her pulse, triumphant swell'd her voice, As court and cottage echoed, "O rejoice !" Her throne a rock, her empire on the sea, Proud she proclaim'd, "Again is Europe free!" Met Victory's plume at each admiring glance, From India's zone to renovated France: Had mark'd the despot, whose Colossal sway, Pale Ruin own'd in Devastation's way; Germania's sigh join Lusitania's tear; Batavia's commerce stretch'd on Freedom's bier; Iberia, panting, call on Albion's hosts, Her hills to cover, and to guard her coasts; Pyrenean mounts grow feeble at his name, While Moscow only was preserved by flame; Italia writhe beneath the Iron Crown, And prostrate Gallia tremble at his frown! Britannia's banner wav'd, and couch'd her lance, Her lion rous'd,—her signal word, "Advance!" Stern Caledonia pour'd her highland train, While Erin rallied on the emerald plain; Through Cambria's hills was heard the bugle horn, As Albion marshall'd with the rising morn. The oak, the laurel, and the shamrock wove In wreaths for Wellesley, favourite of Jove! For noble Uxbridge, Hill, and Lynedoch's lord, Yea, twin'd their leaves on ev'ry Briton's sword;— Cockburn confirms his country's happiest smile, And lands Napoleon on a distant isle. Britannia rested on her conq'ring spear, Invoked her Genius, calling Heaven to hear Her grateful praise, then grant one blessing more, To guide the royal Saxon to her shore! For well she knew, oft had her Genius seen With laurels crown'd the Prince in Saxon green. "Now weaves the olive in Britannia's wreath, "Let Hymen's torch illume my verdant heath; "Illustrious Cobourg join the Brunswick fame, "And my blest Charlotte wear a bridal name." Strike high the lyre, exalt the shell, Bid rapture ev'ry bosom swell; Applauding angels waft the pray'r, Virtue her brightest robe will wear, And all the Graces meet. Valour array'd in Saxon green, Beauty in Charlotte's vestal mien: Glad echoes answer every voice, And Heaven, responsive, sounds, "Rejoice!" To make their bliss complete. AN IMPROMPTU ¹ ONHis Grace the Duke of Wellington'sARRIVAL IN ENGLAND. June, 1816. LIST! Glory, Victory, Valour breathes, Haste, Britons, weave your brightest wreaths; And pay to Heaven your vow: The laurel, olive, shamrock twined, Let Beauty's smile the chaplet bind, To crown the victor's brow! No spectres of corroding care, Shall darken Albion's happy air, Nor cypress meet the view: Remember the triumphal day, The monarch's pride, the peasant's lay, Remember Waterloo! The grief-worn sire shall dry his tears, The orphan-boy forget his fears, And raise a thankful eye: The widow hear her husband's name, Recorded on the page of fame, And then would blush to sigh. The manly heart, the female tongue, E'en infants echo Wellington, And glory's theme pursue: On Scotia's hills, in Erin's vale, What forms the soldier's valiant tale? The field of Waterloo! The artist hails the morning-beam, No hostile sounds disturb his dream, No eagle mars the dove: The labourer tills his native soil, Rewarded for his daily toil, By plenty, peace, and love! The northern heroes, southern band, From Britain's coasts to Ganges' strand, To Valour's instinct true, Proclaim the triumph nobly won, Our Regent bless,—hail Wellington, And point to Waterloo! A NURSERY TALE, 2 ADDRESSED TO George Frederick Augustus, SON OF CAPT. H—E, ROYAL NAVY. IF e'er these lines attract thy youthful eye, Remember me. Let infant memory sigh For her who met thee, with affection's prayer, On thy first entrance in this world of care. My heart received thee, as its sole delight; Thy sweet perfections bless'd my raptur'd sight: Thy cherub charms, thy innocence, thy smile Could misery sooth, and e'en despair beguile. Thy sire, a sailor, generous and brave, In Britain's service, dar'd the briny wave; With gallant Yorke approached the Tagus' strand, To aid the struggling Lusitanian band: (For British bulwarks sought each distant coast To guard fair Freedom from the Gallic host.) Though dear her home, yet dearer Friendship's voice, And thy lov'd mother made the North her choice. Mid Lothian's scenes where Esk flows wildly on,³ Where Roslin's4 ruins live renown'd in song, Where Pentland's5 summits gentle shepherds guide, Hawthorn and birks adorn each mountain-side, Where bonnie lasses dance each care away, While plaided pipers close the toilsome day:— Here Heaven first gave thy bosom to expand, And Scotia thus became thy native land. Eight happy months flew by on downy wing, Shewing, to life so recent, first-born Spring:— Scarce had'st thou met the balmy zephyr's kiss, When I awoke from ev'ry dream of bliss. Joy's roses faded: dire Disease appear'd, And ruthless threaten'd all my care had rear'd. Thy infant frame, derang'd by fever's power, Sustain'd with trembling pulse the anxious hour; Those eyes that ever glisten'd with delight, Now closing, sunk, as though 'twere endless night; Life's only sign a sad and mournful cry,— Pale Hope, affrighted, fled without reply. 'Twas thus, at sea[6], o'ertaken by a storm, My arms supported thy exhausted form: Insensible to danger, fear, or death, I breath'd no sigh, but for my darling's health. The bounteous Author of creation heard And bless'd the pray'r my prostrate soul preferr'd: Descending Mercy, with her healing wand, Rescued thy life from death's destructive hand: Bade Heaven-born Beauty, from the source of grace, With roseate health illume thy smiling face. Returning bliss dispell'd each anxious tear, And George restored, became—Oh, more than dear! Again had Aries join'd the solar beam, Again Favonius freed the frozen stream; Reviving Nature, in her sweetest bloom, Bade ev'ry vision joyous tints resume. Ah, then my fancy would Augustus view, And Hope's warm pencil fill'd the sketch she drew: Maternal care might guide thy youthful feet, To find the humble place of my retreat. And Fancy err'd not!—for my faithful grins Once more encircled all thy breathing charms. Thy wishes (lisp'd in sweet affection's tone), Amusements, trifles, all became my own. I knew no dearer pleasure than to teach The safest path along the pebbled beach; The mead to seek, the painted fly to catch, The toy-shop visit for a gilded watch; Gladly present the disentangled string, And share thy joy to see the kite take wing. When off thy imitative accents tried To give command, the paper ships to guide, A warlike hat, a glitt'ring sword put on, Then proudly strut, or chaunt the steersman's song, Imagination caught the inspiring theme, And thou the hero of her glowing dream: She hail'd the Nelson of a future age, Thy name immortal on thy country's page. The noisy drum enjoy'd to hear thee sound, And bid thy hobby prance through tented ground, The Lilliputian cannon proudly fire, And shout to see the card-bent hosts retire. To sports like these though thou must say Farewell, Yet, dearest boy, fond recollections dwell On blissful moments, on thy life's first ray, Which Heaven prolong to many a future day! Soon will the Latin page, the Grecian lore, Take place of nursery tales, that gossip store! The thought enlarge beyond all baby toys, The infant wish grow into boyhood's joys; And, swiftly past some few revolving years, Then will succeed new wishes, hopes, and fears. This was decreed ere human life began, And marks the high-born destiny of man; Who still improving, still aspiring, tries Science to seek, through earth, through seas, and skies. All useful knowledge, Frederick dear, pursue, With smiling Virtue, fair-rob'd Truth in view. In dove-like mildness let thy wisdom shine, Point to its source, and ev'ry thought refine. All duty dictates, zealously attend, As son, as brother, husband, father, friend. THE WELCOME. 'TIS sweet to hail the breeze of morn, 'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn, 'Tis glorious sport to chase the deer, On swiftest steed, unknown to fear, 'Tis sweet o'er hill, through vale, to roam; But sweeter, far, the Welcome home! When breath'd by love and thee, Mary. The flock to guard, the plough to guide, In fowler's bark to skim the tide, With sportsman's eye to mark the game, Or in the skiff to fish for fame; Though sports and labour know not gloom, Yet sweet to hear the Welcome home, In tones of love, from thee, Mary. In glory's path, supremely brave: The British sailor rules the wave, From sea to sea, from shore to shore His country's conq'ring cannons roar; He saves his foe!—'tis mercy's doom, And then enjoys the Welcome home! If met by one like thee, Mary. The veteran soldier from the field, Whose arm has made the boasting yield, Glory's bright star illumes his name, And rescued nations sing his fame: As ancient chiefs of Greece and Rome His patriot pride is, Welcome home: For Peace e'er smiles like thee, Mary. From festive scene, from War's career, From sportsman's haunt, from labour's sphere, From musing on the mountain side, From watching the receding tide, The sounds of gladness joyful come, And faithful hearts feel Welcome home! For Truth e'er looks like thee, Mary. The high may shine in glitt'ring state, The low must bend to humble fate; The great may boast of sov'reign sway, The little tremble and obey; But joy's elixir still must come In simple sound of Welcome home! Such as I hear from thee, Mary. When days are flown of song and youth, Time still will bless our conscious truth, And every smile thy lips impart, Renew the rapture of the heart; Then age comes not a dreary gloom If yet thy voice speak, Welcome home! And mine can welcome thee, Mary. Our faith may look beyond the skies, May on the wing of cherub rise, May be increas'd in other orbs, Where perfect love the soul absorbs; Hear, springing from the conquer'd tomb, The blissful, final, Welcome home! United still to thee, Mary. INVOCATION. SPIRIT of the peaceful dream, I woo thee in poetic theme: When weary nature sinks to rest, By labour, or by care opprest, Ah! then remember me. The thorny maze, the tangled brake, The quiv'ring bridge o'er yonder lake, The summit of some tower, or hill, Where mute Astonishment breathes still, Oh! bring not those to me. Tempestuous Ocean's troubled shore The light'ning's flash, the thunder's roar, The sinking bark, the tott'ring mast, The shipwreck'd voyager's looks aghast, These must not torture me. The din of war, the clash of arms, For mad Ambition may have charms, Ev'n dreams of conquest, 'neath the pole, May gratify a warrior's soul; But these are not for me. O form etherial! bless the hour, Devoted to soft Slumber's pow'r, With imagery mild and kind, To glad the heart and sooth the mind; Deal gently thus with me. Place me beside the Esk's sweet stream, ('Tis luxury there to wake and dream;) Bring forms beloved, of friends most true, Without the Farewell, or Adieu.— Blest spirit! think of me. Or lead me where the suff'ring lie With pallid cheek, with sunken eye; Oh! bid me haste their woes to cheer, And let them smile when I appear; That's happiness to me. Yet give me back the visions sweet, Of days when I was wont to meet The humid seal of faithful love;— Above all wealth, all joys above, To those who feel like me. When sad realities annoy, Let shadows give me fancied joy; Haste, bring the soothing, opiate balm, And bid the dreams of night be calm, Since day has thorns for me À KATE LA BIEN AIMÈ. 8 IN the dawning of Spring when young Love was born, And the groves of Idalia proclaim'd it was May; When the crimson-tipt rose-bud saluted the morn, As the lark drank the dew-drop and quitted the spray,— The violet bloom'd:—but the lesson she taught Threw a shade on the bright-glowing Iris of mind: Distrust hover'd o'er me and sadden'd each thought, Hope sigh'd on the vase of her fragrance declin'd. I had number'd each day since the crimson-tipt flower, Expanded her beauties to welcome Sol's ray; The lark oft ascended from grove and from bower, The dews of last eve brought thy ides, lovely May! When Fancy, adorned in her life-breathing hue, Replac'd the thrown vase, re-illumin'd Hope's date: Ever blest be the power which thus can renew Expectation's sweet bloom and remembrance of Kate! Though sparkling Fiction gay opals9 impart, Yet Truth, and Truth only bids Joy's roses live: One line traced by her, from the page of thy heart, Is worth all the volumes Invention can give. Then blossom, fair Hope! sweetest odours exhale, Grateful Memory hallow the dictates of Fate, Delight gild the vista, in life's thorny vale, Displaying the blest prospect of friendship and Kate! TO THE SALIX BABYLONICA. "Di memoria nudrirsi, piu che di speme." LONG on thy bough my harp had silent hung And Pity wept o'er many a woe unsung: The Spring had past, bright Summer's beauty bloom'd; Yet saw the harp to mournful silence doom'd: Though Autumn smil'd, though Ceres wooed the strain, Joyless it hung, and Ceres wooed in vain. Chill'd ev'ry murmur—on the Salix slept The frozen string, by Winter's mantle swept. Hope fail'd to wake the long-forgotten tone: No visions blest. Mnemosyne was flown. The silent harp, the drooping bough, The aching heart, the faithful vow, The tearful eye, the wreck of mind, The glow of ev'ry hope resign'd, A pitying Dryad knew. Quick from thy bough the lyre she brought, And in the softest vespers taught, A charm to drive Despair.— Again I sought my fav'rite bower; The harp regain'd each long-lost power, And hail'd the forms of air. It caroll'd life's exulting morn, It spoke of joys when Love was born, It sprang beyond the nether sphere, Sublim'd the sigh, dispell'd the tear, 'Till song to rapture grew. 'Twas thus divine Mnemosyne return'd, Thrill'd o'er the sense and through the spirit burn'd; Invok'd her pow'r each shadow to retrace, And lo! they come, they come to my embrace, Crown'd with the chaplets of eternal joy, No storms can blight, no tempests can destroy. These are, indeed, the sun-beams of the heart, When Hope's deceptive finger barbs a dart, To pierce the morrow's fond delusive train, With torture more than mortal can sustain. Then while the oak, the laurel, and the pine, The bay, the myrtle, and the fruitful vine, Have each their vot'ries, each their fav'rite muse, I'll meet the morn, and wait the ev'ning dews, Beneath the branch whereon my harp was hung, When joy was silenc'd, and the nerve unstrung. Sweet, silv'ry sounds, to wand'ring minstrels dear, Break on the night and charm the list'ning ear. Hark! Philomela hails her Cynthia's beam, And calls each Naiad from the sedgy stream; While Vespertilio hides his dusky wing, And Mem'ry's accents wake the trembling string! I'll bless the drooping Salix in the glade, Where fondest Fancy loves each flitting shade; Welcomes those forms Remembrance holds most dear, To speak the bliss of every distant sphere. The DUCHESS LA VALLIERE, WHEN PREPARING TO TAKE THE VEIL.10 COME, spirit of the midnight hour, Sleep my care-worn couch has fled: From dreary tomb, from mould'ring tow'r, Come, with dark and whirlwind tread. Bring ghosts of long-departed joys, Extinguish'd pleasures bring; Each tort'ring thought that rest destroys, Distraction on thy wing. Hark! the thunder's rolling terror Follows on the light'ning's glare; Speaks it not La Valliere's error In the tones of dark despair? My whirling brain, my throbbing heart; Thy baneful presence hails: Enough, dread spirit! oh, depart, My awe-struck memory fails. No phantom of a phrensied mind, My bosom's peace o'erthrows:— To lawless love my youth consign'd, The source of all my woes. This howling storm, this dismal night, No moon, no star to guide, Might even Innocence affright, Such death-like horrors glide. But, if amid the Stygian gloom, Should glide false Capet's form, I'll bless the dear destructive doom, And hail the midnight storm. Too long my bleeding, faithful heart, Reposed on kingly smile: Yet Valliere's love can ne'er depart, Nor Capet's name revile. Divine Madonna, when I kneel Before thy sacred shrine, Should then a thought to Louis steal, Ere I am wholly thine: Then place before my dazzled eye The love of Heaven and Thee;— Refine my prayer, accept my sigh, Or set my spirit free. Regard me, as I prostrate bow, My thorn-pierced bosom heal; Hear me pronounce the solemn vow, The vow without repeal. And when the falling veil conceals The deeply streaming tear; When not a look my thought reveals, Wilt thou my anguish hear? Oh, sacred Virgin! pure and blest, Receive thy suppliant's prayer;— La Valliere in the grave would rest, Let Louis be thy care. Away, ye pearls,—ye gems adieu, La Valliere heeds ye not; Your charms were sought when life was new, But charms are now forgot. The pearls that bound my glossy hair, Resign'd for convent dress; Hidden each trait that once was fair, And shorn the flowing tress! But what are gems—they cannot give Peace to the head they crown: Nor can they bid one virtue live To give that life renown. Oh, blest Madonna! had I been Some humble cottage maid, And ne'er had rivall'd Gallia's queen, Nor been myself betrayed; I then, beneath the peasant's thatch, Had sung each care away; Ready to lift the humble latch To wanderer led astray, The tendrils of the vine to guide, The earliest fruit to rear;— Pursuits like these had been my pride; Their blight my only fear. Thus free from woe my life had past, And Death possess'd no sting; That peaceful grave my home at last Where children sit and sing. How different now, when every sense Alive alone to pain, Brings nought that can a hope dispense Love's victim to sustain. Holy Madonna! yet forgive, Direct, support, renew; In mercy bid thy servant live, My contrite spirit view. No more my wandering visions stray, Nor earth shall hear my woe:— Welcome the vow I take to-day, And blest thy gates, Chaillot! TO A LETTER. January. The Spring's early violet was transient to view, The last rose-bud of Summer too breath'd its adieu! Yet the petals of Hope look as fresh as the morn, And the blossoms of Love both protect and adorn. Then haste, haste away, At the dawning of day, As soft as the zephyr, as swift as a dove: In a moment most blest, When to Harriet's heart prest, Say the petals of Hope guard the blossoms of Love. Not a leaf trembles now the existence to prove Of the tints lovely Autumn bestowed on the grove: But the wild mountain breezes becoming a gale, Swept the beauty of groves and the heath of the vale. Yet the snow-drop is left, Of no beauty bereft, While the arbutus mimics the strawberry's form; The laurestine blows, And a sweet emblem shews How the blossoms of Love are secured from the storm. Oh! could'st thou embody the language of sighs, And trace the soft source whence my wishes arise; Coulds't thou carry the whisper that breathes from my heart, Neither letting its warmth, nor its dictates depart,— Or could'st thou engage To display on thy page All that seraphs would feel if impassioned above;— From time, simple thing! That rich rapture would spring, Which realized hopes give the blossoms of Love. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. (Edinburgh.) FROM Devon's heath-crown'd hills and verdant plains Where Beauty smiles, though simple Nature reigns, A stranger came,—by various fortune tried, To famed Edina, Scotia's boast and pride. In bright Athenian circles glad to roam, Yet, feeling exil'd from a much-lov'd home, Some casual gloom would oft regret betray, As faithful Swiss, "la maladie du pays." For Mem'ry's visions to the mind can tell Each pensive cadence of a sad farewell. A friendly Genie, with angelic look, To cheer such hour commission'd thee, O Book! Let then my thanks perpetuated dwell, For the kind act thou hast perform'd so well. Thy gracious owner's beauty, sense, and taste, Once seen and heard can never be eras'd: This praise deserved, within thy page implant, "Tis homage due to peerless Lady Grant."11 NOUS AVONS RENCONTRE! BRIGHT Hope's cheering blossoms Have expanded to-day, And sweet are the charms Which her petals display. Care suspended his cloud, No dark visions were near; Shall I hallow this day Through the rest of the year? Yes, Katherine, yes. Thus met and beloved, O most valued and kind! In thy memory place me Where Truth is enshrined. The spring of affection Though recent is dear, And when Joy kindles blisses Thy image is near, Yes, Katherine, yes. When blest recollections, When dreams of delight, Gild my morning, my noon, And the pillow of night, Should Sensation's soft chord, Give to Absence a tear, I will welcome the feeling As sacred and dear;— Yes, Katherine, yes. Though Life may be thorny, Yet Love scatters roses, And that heart throbs with pleasure Where Friendship reposes: Then list to the whispers I breathe on thine ear, Of Love they will tell thee, Of Friendship sincere;— Yes, Katherine, yes. TO CARE. SOUL-HARROWING Care, corrosive guest, When wilt thou let my anguish'd breast The balm of comfort meet? Not all the joys which Nature yields In gardens, meadows, groves, and fields, With thee can e'er be sweet. Anxious I climb the distant hill, The vale I seek, the fount, the rill, Yet cannot banish thee: But all would bless beneath the skies, And every thought to rapture rise, If from thy influence free. What bribe allures thee to this cell, Why bid with me thy spectres dwell, Oh, mind-consuming Care? No golden treasures e'er were mine, Nor did my wishes e'er incline The pomp of state to share. To shield me from thy hated sway, Some humble home is all I pray, Some shelter'd, dear retreat: A sauntering Muse to wander near, A ballad warbled on mine ear, A friendly voice to greet: Sure joys so simple could not bring Thy shrivelled form, thy corbeau wing, Beneath the lowly cot,— No! Hope's bright sun would enter there, And never be eclips'd by Care, If such the minstrel's lot. Oh! Fancy, vainer than a dream, Thy pencil loves the tranquil theme Of Life's secluded joys; While sad Reality displays The sleepless nights, the restless days, Of those whom Care destroys. Yet Fancy now shall soaring stretch, On trembling wing her tints shall fetch From Heaven's exhaustless fount: Beyond the atmosphere of Care, My Soul shall draw her vital air, For Mercy bids her mount. Though Earth's dim orb be overcast, The amaranth blooms for me at last; Once 'scaped the grassy sod, Cherubic strains will rapt'rous swell, To Care a long, a last Farewell! When Spirit finds her God. DISAPPOINTMENT. STERN Disappointment! well I know thy mien, Thus still a frequent though unwelcome guest; Thy name familiar and thine arrows keen, Offend the ear and wound the anxious breast. How many a vase of bliss by thee o'erthrown; How many a tear has dew'd Love's faded wreaths; How many a blighted hope thy mandates own; How many sigh where Disappointment breathes! Joy blooms no more beneath thy sceptre's power; But flies from man and finds her native skies: Creative Fancy seeks the cypress bower; Where fragrance withers, and where radiance dies. No more the "melodies of morn" delight; Nor Beauty paint the bright meridian ray; Though Eve's sweet echoes meet the star of Night, No lustre cheers the darkness of thy way. The care-worn sire expecting from the field A soil to welcome with his parting breath; Learns that to thee Hope's dearest visions yield;— Then silent, sinks into the arms of Death! Connubial Faith and sweet maternal Care May smile to-morrow, though to-day they mourn: The artless infant kneels, and lisps a prayer;— But husband, father, will no more return! Long was the voyage:—Impatience mark'd the chart Till earth's fair scenes might bless a sailor's view: The morn came blissful, gladness fill'd his heart, For Love adorned each sketch that Fancy drew. Ill-fated voyager! cease thou to rejoice;— Pale is the cheek, and cold in death the hand, Closed the bright eye, and mute the tuneful voice, That would have hail'd thee to thy native land! Such are thy triumphs, such thy ruthless joy, The buds to scatter and to plant the thorn; With frown malignant, smiling Hope destroy, And dim, with Woe's dark clouds, the ray of morn. Will not a peasant's roof, a hermit-cell, Pestiferous power! defy thy hateful form?— Sad Ruin meets thee where the lowly dwell, While Pity mourns the desolating storm. The blooming vineyard, and the harvest plain, The young made happy, and the old content: What prosperous dreams (yet dreams, alas! are vain) Are to the labourer's peaceful pillow sent. He wakes to misery! sees the torrent rush, Hears wildest winds lay waste his promis'd store: Fell Poverty his helpless children crush; His joys are blighted, and he smiles no more! Yon wandering maniac, on the mountain side, Whose tone is mournful, and whose look is woe, Bloom'd sweetly once, the flower of village pride; Oh, spare a mark so lovely, yet so low! The one she loved is now a seraph's care!— But her heart, faithful as returning light, Still hears his voice borne on the balmy air; Still wooes his form through thickest shades of night. List to the lyre beneath that blasted tree— Observe the minstrel's melancholy tear; Genius was his, he soared with ardour free, He worshipped Science with a soul sincere. His birth was higher than his fortune's blest, Harsh Disappointment's discipline he knew: Chill Penury's terrors could not be supprest; Thus Reason bade the orphan boy adieu! In all the varied shapes of human ill, Thy bitter portion man is doom'd to sip; From eyes of Infancy the tears distil, As promise fades upon the parent lip. The flatter'd sov'reign, and the fetter'd slave, The form of beauty, and the feeling heart, From youth to manhood, even to the grave, Bend to thy pow'r, and know thy venom'd dart. DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON THE SEA SIDE. PEACEFUL the wave, silent the wintry roar, Tranquil each echo on the sandy shore: To distant seas the hov'ring gull has flown, Far distant too the curlew's plaintive moan: The gliding vessel has her royals set; Long wearied voy'gers may their toils forget: While ev'ry boat, launch'd from the busy strand, Rewards the efforts of the lab'ring hand. Old men, rejoicing, mend the wide-spread net And, proudly, deem themselves not useless yet: The ancient botanist, of village fame, Whose hortus-siccus knows not Linnæus' name, Cheer'd by the sun-shine, hobbles from her door, To view the wild-thyme and the samphire-store; Smiles on the cloisters in the shadowing cliff, Where children gather shells, or guide the skiff; Remembers well when she, like them, was young, And kindly blesses childhood's artless tongue. Who would not loiter on this rugged coast! Who would not joy such native shores to boast! Borne on cerulean car, through Ether's sphere, What sanguine tones salute my list'ning ear? Attend. The fragrant ottar bring, Quick, twine the earliest buds of Spring, And haste to meet Time's blushing morn, While Hebe's smiles your bowers adorn, She flies, alas! too soon. Ere vi'lets blow, or snow-drops sleep, Ere crocus fades, or heath-bells weep, Ere April's fickle sun appear, O, haste to hail the new-born year, Nor wait the beam of noon. Yon sea may soon tumultuous swell; Yon vessel take a last farewell; The bittern's lonely, hideous cry Respond the sinking sailor's sigh, And spots eclipse the sun. Then wait not Hope's deceptive ray, But swiftly seize the present day; Let Pleasure's voice alone invite, Her varied charms your soul delight, Her magic circle run. Study may hide in gloomy schools, Wisdom may preach her musty rules, Labour obtain what toil can give, Tis only Pleasure's train that live, Or reach Olympus' mount. Wait not till the meridian beam Illume the basking shepherd's dream; Wait not till Autumn fill the hand, But fly, ere Winter dim the land To seek the Paphian fount." In cloudless skies, where dwells unchanging Truth, Were heard these accents of impetuous youth: Her radiance shone upone the rocky steep, And Hope came, smiling, o'er the tranquil deep; As her soft arm the steady anchor press'd, The Goddess thus her azure train address'd:— "From sober Truth alluring Fancy turns, Where madd'ning Folly's phantom-taper burns; Bestows on Riot peaceful Pleasure's name— But Pleasure lives not in Circean fame. The bliss convey'd in my supporting ray Despis'd, for gilded shadows of a day: Learning rejected, Wisdom's voice contemn'd, With all that Reason, Virtue, Truth commend. Rove on, thou idle insect of the Spring, No summer-sun matures thy feeble wing. If one short hour alone employ the thought, How vain those laws by revelation taught And if the future have no charms for man, His present life had better ne'er began. Behold the sailor—mark yon toiling boat— See feeble Age, from all but Hope remote: List Labour's wish, hear Childhood's guileless tale; Hope bids them live, Hope cheers the humble vale: And when to thee, blest Truth, their vespers reach, O sound the melodies thy counsels teach." In brightest panoply array'd, Celestial Truth her form display'd; A glorious halo round her shone, A coral rock became her throne. No "thunders shook the astonish'd world;" No light'nings flash'd, nor bolts were hurl'd; 'Twas Nature's halcyon hour: Escaped the furious bird of Jove, Here Peace an olive garland wove; Meekness with virgin-blush appear'd, When Hope's inviting voice was heard; While Love with chaste and timid look, The anchor's offered shelter took, And found it Safety's bower. The smile of Faith and Pity's mien, With genial Charity were seen; With placid look and eye of blue, Fair Temp'rance came in healthful hue; Blest Piety, with heav'nly Grace, Made Truth's firm rock their resting-place;— To breathe their matin prayer, To Truth, Peace gave her fav'rite dove, Joy hail'd the off'ring made by Love, Simplicity and sweet Content Their balmy tributes glad present; Beauty's tiara crown'd the whole, Music, of ev'ry bliss the soul, Led genuine Pleasure there. Majestic, standing on the rocky shrine, Truth spake and charm'd. "Yon azure sky is mine: There ev'ry faithful wish of active zeal, There every pious hope the humble feel, And each desire Philanthropy e'er knew, Illustrious rise to my approving view. In vain wild passions 'gainst my power contend, Whilst bright-wing'd messengers to earth descend. To those who tremble at the shape of Fear, Faith holds her symbol all their doubts to clear. Though Disappointment deal an angry dart, Hope's lenient finger heals the wounded heart. Where dark Oppression rules with iron rod; Where wretched suff'rers call on Mercy's God; Where sinking Poverty retires to weep; Where pining Sickness calls, in vain, for sleep,— Mild Charity appears, in soothing form, Bids Riot think and Apathy grow warm; Leads sweet Benevolence where the friendless tread; Shews blest Humanity the roofless shed. When Life's last ray scarce lights the dreary waste, The trusting spirit, with exulting haste To boundless Charity commends her doom;— And Faith conducts the weary wand'rer home. The blooming morn of man's terrestrial day, Should be the prelude of noon's brighter ray: And, thus conducted to autumnal joys, Winter's hoar presence blesses, not destroys. If Folly triumph where Discretion stood, And Youth exhaust all source of future good: Summer must fail to warm such mildew'd path. Autumnal joy become appalling wrath; While Winter only can such deeds recount As give the wish for Lethe's fabled fount. Does Nature teach, enlighten'd Reason prove, From Sinai's mount to philosophic grove That one iota of these evils came From Truth (who counsell'd in the bush of flame?) Then pause, rash Youth, nor haste the scythe of Time To mow those blossoms which should spring sublime; Should lend their fragrance to each passing hour, And shed each charm on Mem'ry's blissful power; Refresh, invigorate, support, and cheer, When weeping eyelids drop Affection's tear. Haply, some prove in this revolving orb, Woes that consume, afflictions that absorb; Watch the lov'd look, the trembling whispers hear, As pallid Death extends his doubtful spear; Mourn sever'd ties and sigh o'er many a grave Of those they fondly would have died to save: But chaste attachments and unsullied love, Shall meet Perfection in the realms above. Some, likely, doom'd with Penury to cope, Fit to control, but oft obliged to stoop, Lament that Fortune's destiny is hard, Because their Genius finds no kind regard. Yet such are blest, by Inspiration's beam, Beyond what cold, repulsive worldlings dream Though wrapt in ragged mantle they may trace The origin of Virtue, Beauty, Grace: View Homer's shade, recline on Virgil's tomb, With Tully wander, and with Tasso roam: Climb Alpine mounts, trace Abyssinian flood. Or mark the site where vast Palmyra stood: The vase antique from lava's torrent bring, The records read of prophet, priest, and king. Search hidden worlds of minerals and plants, Give streams to murmur where the Arab pants, Teach heav'nly doctrines to the darkest bands. And temples rear on Afric's burning sands: Rescue the human victim from Despair, And teach the ruffian tomahawk to spare: Drive Superstition from her scalp-hung cell, And visit scenes where Man and Misery dwell: In trackless deserts, in the forest's gloom Where cultur'd sweets were never seen to bloom, To wand'ring tribes give Galileo's light (Blest coruscations of a polar night!) While marble breathes and pencill'd treasures glow To feast their fancies, though their lot be low. Probationary here the transient span Allotted for the exercise of man. If virtuous deeds adorn the creed of faith, Then Life's best hopes survive the dart of Death. At that cold touch the thrilling senses fly, Silent the voice, congeal'd the beaming eye; The heart that throbb'd within the faithful breast, Still as the hand which truly, fondly prest; Prostrate the form, unconscious of the tear By Love and Friendship pour'd upon the bier. To mere mortality this vital check, Displays the horror of a final wreck: But, 'tis transition, sent by wise command, Though life, repugnant, dread the icy hand. The etherial spirit, freed from every strife, May still, perhaps, remember human life; Pursue those joys which mark'd her heav'nly birth, While doom'd to sojourn on this distant earth: When godlike Science charm'd th' attentive soul, When Fancy, boundless flew from pole to pole: With holy prophet and with rev'rend sage, Employ'd the day to learn the sacred page; Drew, with Archimedes, geometric line, Or mused with Plato on the scheme divine: With Newton sought the gravitating force, And scann'd the orbit of each planet's course; Trac'd the erratic Comet's dazzling flight; Knew why so brilliant the Galaxy's light; Panted to share Elijah's fiery car, And gaz'd till midnight on each glitt'ring star: With Persian ardour watch'd the solar beam, To see Creation's rays of glory stream: Beheld the mighty Ocean ebb, or flow, As shone the circle, or the silver bow: Life's best enjoyments drew from Heaven's pure fount, Each hope's foundation—Calvary's holy mount! If such the pleasures of the spirit here, How great the bliss to visit ev'ry sphere; To learn of seraphs and with angels trace Nature's whole system, the extent of space: Whate'er of science and whate'er of thought Dispens'd below, to full perfection brought. From orb to orb behold the mighty plan By Love conceived, eternal Truth began, By power accomplish'd and by glory crown'd, And blest by myriads who the throne surround." Soft was the voice that call'd the holy seer, Sweet were those sounds the watching shepherds heard, Blest were their hearts who felt the Godhead near, And blest their off'rings when the Star appear'd. Still Glory, Peace, and Mercy meet, Still soft the sounds, still silvery sweet As those the shepherds hail'd. Faith's heav'nly symbol, like the Star No cloud can hide, nor demon mar— The infant God prevail'd! Symphonious as "great tidings" from above, Pure as the concords of angelic love, Came Truth's firm dictates, breath'd serenely mild, And Glory, Peace, and Mercy met and smil'd! "SHADES OF MY FATHERS." OH! could I sing in strain divine, Or Ossian, if thy harp were mine, The spirit of the great Fingal, From heath'ry hill, from Scottish hall, Would teach my ardent muse to wake The Naiads of the Highland lake: Would proudly pause on many a spot, By passing footstep now forgot; Would say the BRUCE, the ROSS were here, Names still to Valour's memory dear: While many a Campbell's shade would cross, To bless the BRUCE, to hail the ROSS; And every chord would trembling swell, And every tone would fondly tell Of days "lang syne" of pibroch's sound, When Douglas fought, when BRUCE was crown'd. Perhaps, my proud soul would aspire, Would try to reach an Ossian lyre, Till Feeling's genuine tear would start, To cool the wounded, throbbing heart, Till, on the confines of their tomb, STUARTS' royal race might mourn my doom. Yet, come not, look not from the skies, But bid to yours my spirit rise; For should such noble heroes know The extent of their offspring's woe 'Twould bring them from the realms of peace.— Then sleep my harp!—thy murmurs cease!— Though blighted joys shew Fortune's hate, Though Mem'ry barb the darts of Fate, In southern vale, on northern hill, Dreams of my fathers bless me still; While morn can bring to Fancy's ear Inspiring sounds from Glory's sphere. Haply, th' indignant pulse might calm, Should Hope apply an healing balm; And, charm'd by the seraphic wing, Again the minstrel wake the string; Again might sing of olden time, Again might trace the page sublime. But if forsaken, if forgot, The wand'ring minstrel mourn her lot Where echoes wild as wintry wave Respond the triumphs of the brave; The STUART, the BRUCE, the ROSS will call From glen, from mount, from Scottish hall!— These names I've lov'd from earliest youth, These names of honour, faith, and truth; These names my latest lay shall sing, These names shall bid my spirit spring; And when Misfortune aims a dart, It can but pierce a "Bleeding Heart!" THE ROSE AND THE LUTE 'TWAS not the lute, though touch'd by thee, 'Twas not the welcome kind and free, That charm'd my list'ning ear: 'Twas not the hand that warmly prest, 'Twas not the rose-bud Love carest, Call'd Memory to her sphere! No! 'twas the strain so artless sung, On which my mute attention hung That woke the slumb'ring Muse: Thus then, dear girl! you know the way To tune my soul, and give the lay Which Love can ne'er refuse. What idle finger bade depart, The rose-leaves from thy faithful heart, Oh! Katherine was it mine? Was Memory then absorb'd so much, To let the wasteful finger touch, And spoil a sweet of thine? Had then th' awak'ning strain once breathed, Repentant Memory would have wreathed The rose-leaves on the lyre! While such the power possess'd by thee, Behold, "I fondly bend the knee," And Freedom may expire. Accept the flower that has been mine, And place it in thy bosom's shrine, It asks no other Heaven! When its last fragrance meets decay, Wilt thou its parting requiem play, And tell me I'm forgiven?— Should then a plaintive sadness swell The string that speaks the last farewell, Love's matin task shall be Some bud to bring more sweet and fair, To give fresh perfume to the air— To live and die with thee! AN IMPROMPTU TO THE LADY OF CAPTAIN H—N—TT, ROYAL NAVY. May, 1816. AGAIN, lovely Syren! those notes breathe again, Let my wonder-rapt ear list that melody still; 'Tis Heaven's own harmony lives in thy strain, Each rapturous feeling awakes at the thrill. When spheres roll'd primeval through ether's expanse, When the first star of morn join'd the concert above, When Music gave sounds the bright work to enhance, And seraphs pronounced it the language of Love: O then, fair Irene! thy spirit was form'd, Such voices as thine made the concert above, And when a blest shrine was by Harmony warm'd, Thou wert given to H—n—tt, to Valour and Love! Again, lovely Syren! those notes breathe again, Let my wonder-rapt ear list that melody still, 'Tis Heaven's own harmony lives in thy strain, Each rapturous feeling awakes at the thrill. ON THE ALGERINE EXPEDITION. July, 1816. NEPTUNE, indignant, saw on Afric's coast, His seas invaded by a barb'rous host, Heard Pity's voice, saw Mercy's heav'nly form Implore protection from the pirate storm: Summon'd his tritons, blew the blast of war. And to Britannia wheel'd his emerald car. "Thee, Queen of Nations, thee I call to aid, Where Afric's blood-red pendant is display'd: The swarthy Dey each civil bond annuls, And counts his honours by his victims' skulls. Thy frown is fate, thy bulwarks are my laws, Then rouse, Britannia, in thy Neptune's cause. Thy Nelson's shade would shudder with despair, Should Neptune crouch to this abhorr'd Corsair. Call on thy sons and be thy flag unfurl'd; Those sons, that flag, the glory of the world!" Britannia paus'd not: but a crystal tear Bedew'd the olive-garland on her spear. "Degen'rate Afric! can the wisest sage, The preacher's doctrine, or the poet's page, Produce examples stronger than thy chains, Of man's lost state, when man despotic reigns? "Neptune, thy rights are mine, and Mercy's cause Beams on my standard, forms Britannia's laws: My noble sons a ready sword will wield On Ocean's bosom, or Bellona's field. "The healing olive scarce yet crowns my brow, Scarce for my vict'ries have I paid any vow, The anxious matron scarce has bless'd her boy, The happy sire yet knows but half his joy, Scarce from the temple led the blushing bride, Ere War comes rolling on th' ensanguin'd tide. "Yet, rear my ensign, and the laurel bring, Name but Britannia's rights, her laws, her King,— The anxious parents give their darling son, The sword is girded ere the feast's begun. "Surely the Gods will make my sons their care, Hear Love's kind farewell and the faithful pray'r. Then go, my heroes, set the suff'ring free,— Your banner's motto, 'George and Victory'!" TO CORNWALL. ACCEPT, dear Cornubia! a sigh of regret For the friends whom I leave, for the joys which I met. Though sterile thy hills, yet thy heath and thy moor By the rich are respected, belov'd by the poor: Thy sons, nurs'd in freedom, are loyal and brave, "One and all" 12 would they die their lov'd country to save. O, long may thy daughters those virtues display, To which temples were built in the Latian day. The eagles of Rome13 never darken'd thy air, Nor Corsican locusts flew, pestilent, there: Thy rocks, bare and bold, rear their heads to the sky, Atlantic's proud wave they as proudly defy, And, hurling the foam back to Ocean's loud roar, Say, "Freedom's safe seat is an iron-bound shore." Vast engines of art, that astonish the mind, Shew Science has found thee and Learning refin'd: Where Druids once worshipp'd, where bards struck the lyre, Now presents the rich ore, or an ocean of fire: Not Parian marble, but granite thy boast, Yet Opie and Davy were born on thy coast; And when British worthies Biography draws, Present her thy Carew14 with smiles of applause. 'Mong thy glens have I roam'd, and oft on thy downs Caught the voice of thy hamlets, the hum of thy towns: Inspiration have drank, as from Helicon's fount, Near that transcript of Ida, blest Edgcumbe's lov'd mount,15 At whose bounteous gates feeble Want is supplied, So liberal the donor that none are denied.16 Where Graces encircle the Muses are near, And thy name, De Dunstanville,17 to Genius is dear, While oft thy humanity prompts the glad theme Of rescue from Death to the mariner's dream. Renown'd Trelowarren,18 of goodness the seat, Where the citron blooms in a myrtle retreat: Why should Grief linger there?—Every virtue must mourn When the Cypress twines round their favourite's urn;— So gentle, so good, so belov'd, and so blest,— By mortals deplor'd, though by Heaven possest! Yet cease the lament,—'twas an angel that flew, 'Twas the voice of a seraph that whisper'd, "Adieu.''19 Retired Lanarth,20—where benevolence reigns No want is unheeded; no orphan complains But thy roof offers shelter, thy tables supply. Kind Samaritans pity when Levites pass by! Behold Cultivation, the offspring of Taste, And blush ye who say that Cornubia's a waste; Do not roses of Summer and violets of Spring To Enys21 their first blooming fragrance e'er bring?— If grateful Affection embalm with a tear, If Memory linger on scenes that were dear, Then, then Rosamundi,22 that tear shall be thine, Regret and affection shall ever be mine. How oft in thy paths, 'mid the shrubs gemm'd with dews, Have I strung my wild harp to the minstrel's Muse, The gay chaplets of Fancy have carelessly strown, Rejoiced that my heart had a home of its own. But, Cornubia, farewell to thy hills and thy vales! Peace blesses thy mountains, health breathes in thy gales; And if my full heart should salute thee no more, I will pencil erica past joys to restore. In legends of old, in archives of the sage, Where thy Genius adorns the historian's page, To these days made immortal by valour in war, Proud Fame shews Cornubia inscrib'd on her car; And when goblets are quaff'd to the brave and the free, Boasts her Vivians on land, and her Exmouths at sea. TO THE MEMORY OF A DEPARTED FRIEND. 23 HIGH on the page of dear, domestic fame, This humble pen inscribes a virtuous name; Records a husband's fondest, heartfelt sigh; Hallows the tear in sweet Affection's eye; Twines the lorn cypress wreath around the urn, Where Love still lingers, where the faithful mourn: Laments that Death's dread quiver should destroy Connubial bliss and halcyon scenes of joy. Yet Faith and Hope, those forms of heav'nly love, Console the mourner, lead to spheres above; Make these the dictates of the swelling heart, "We did not meet eternally to part. That voice belov'd which charm'd each care away, Now hails the regions of an endless day: Though Memory still shall muse on her that blest, We would not call her from the realms of rest. Her innate virtues sought not public view; Serene, resign'd, she bade this world adieu!" Thus calmly speak the messengers of peace: Grief looks to Heaven. There its murmurs cease! TO MY WRITING DESK. ZEST of my pleasure, solace of my pain, Thou gift belov'd, O still with me remain; Hast thou not form'd my chief, my sole delight, Since I receiv'd thee from the "Christian Knight." When, Hope, that syren, almost fails to charm, On thee, my desk, I lean the nerveless arm, And, turning o'er the fragments in thy cells, Yield to the witchery of beguiling spells. Haply, I meet some jocund, tuneful lay By Love inspir'd, or Friendship's genial ray; Some traces pencill'd in a blissful hour, Some Theban med'cine of care-soothing power: Perhaps some worshipp'd Muse may breathe a strain, While Fancy musters her aerial train, And, soaring far beyond oppressive sense, Build charming structures,—in the future tense! Still can I loiter on thy banks, sweet Esk! Still woo thy Naiads to the friendly desk, Still see thy banks, so musically wild, Thy rushing linn, thy rocks majestic pil'd,— Combine thy tones upon th' abstracted ear, Till Memory pays the tribute of a tear. My fate yet seems with wand'ring steps to roam, Nor find the shelter of a peaceful home; Nor Esk's, nor Tamar's24 flow'ry banks to view, But Thames', or Isis' classic streams pursue. I murmur not;—for I've access to thee, My thoughts are boundless and my spirit free; 24 The pen transports me to my native hills, And long-lost rapture through my bosom thrills. Oft come, blest visions, from yon balmy sphere, In whispers speak of all my soul holds dear: Your votary rescue, with angelic haste, From hopeless clouds, from Care's consuming waste, And if reality have nought to give, The forms of bliss ideally may live. A few of the Poems in the foregoing Collection have, at different intervals, appeared in the Daily Prints; the gratifying reception they met, has induced me to give them a less ephemeral existence by this mode of presenting them to the Public. NOTES. Note 1, page 5, line 1. THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S ARRIVAL.

To deprecate the severity of criticism on these lines, I can only assure the reader that they were composed, precisely as they now appear, in twenty minutes.

Note 2, page 8, line 1. THE NURSERY TALE.

Particular feelings are not generally interesting; nor do I expect that every person who may honour me by turning over the pages of this publication, will derive amusement from a nursery tale: but there are some, indeed many, to whose affectionate recollections the subject will need no apology.

Note 3, page 9, line 3. Mid Lothian's scenes where Esk flows wildly on.

The northern reader will allow how enchantingly beautiful are the banks of the North Esk, particulary from Roslin to Dalkeith. The English admirer of the romantic and picturesque can imagine nothing more beautiful than this part of Scotland.

Note 5, page 9, line 4. Where Roslin's ruins, &c.

Roslin Castle is so well known in song, and so richly described by one of the chief among modern bards, that any further observation here must be deemed superfluous.

Note 5, page 9, line 5. Where Pentland's summits, &c.

A range of very elevated hills stretching from Edinburgh toward Dumfries. The admirers of Allan Ramsay's sweet dramatic pastoral, "The Gentle Shepherd," will, doubtless, recollect that its scene is laid among the Pentlands.

Note 6, page 10, line 3. 'Twas thus at sea, &c.

Voyaging from Leith to London.

Note 8, page 21, line 1. À KATE LA BIEN AIMÈ.

If the lady to whom this is addressed, accept so humble a tribute as a testimony of the happiness her friendship afforded me, even in anticipation, I shall readily submit to the reflection of having sent a few lines into the world, which to one reader only can be intelligible.

Note 9, page 22, line 1. Though sparkling Fiction her opals impart.

The quality of this gem is, I believe, to combine the tints of all others, without possessing any specific colour of its own. Thomson in describing the solar power says— —— "But, all combin'd, Thick through the whitening opal play thy beams, Or, flying several from its surface, form A trembling variance of revolving hues, As the site varies in the gazer's hand."

Note 10, page 27, line 3. THE DUCHESS LA VALLIERE.

A painting of the Duchess La Valliere preparing to take the veil, brought to my remembrance Madame de Genlis' novel on that subject. I believe there is no very striking departure from the tenor of Madame de G.'s work: but I cannot answer for the accuracy of my memory.

Note 11, page 36, line 4. Lady Grant,

Of Moniemusk. To whom no compliment can be flattery, as those who know her will admit, and those who do not may believe.

Note 12, page 73, line 6. One and all.

The county motto.

Note 13, page 73, line 9. The eagles of Rome, &c.

History assures us that the Romans never subdued Cornwall.

Note 14, page 74, line 9. Present her thy Carew, &c.

The Right Honourable Reginald Pole Carew, M. P. honoured in public and beloved in domestic life.

Note 15, page 74, line 14. Blest Edgcumbe's lov'd mount.

That epitome of all the melodies in nature, Mr. Moore, in a very elegant dedication of some poems to the Earl of Moira, calls "to mind the reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. 'On Hercules,' said the honest Spartan, 'who ever thought of blaming Hercules!' In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of 'Mount Edgcumbe,' a very superfluous task."

Note 16, page 74, line 16. So liberal the donor that none are denied.

It should be gratefully recorded on the pages of immortality how deeply the poor of that neighhourhood are indebted to the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, and to the benevolence of the late inestimable Countess, whose illustrious rank faded in comparison with her excellence. Her mortal period was short, though surrounded by every temporal blessing, and it would seem that Heaven just sent her to this orb to shew what angels are.

Note 17, page 74, line 17. Lord De Dunstanville.

A nobleman at once celebrated for his talents as a scholar, his polish as a gentleman, and his benevolence as a Christian.

Note 18, page 75, line 10. Trelowarren.

The beautiful residence of Sir Vyell Vyvyan, Bart. who must ever be respected as an ornament and a blessing to society.

Note 19, page 75, line 19. 'Twas the voice of a seraph that whisper'd Adieu.

Lady Vyvyan, whose social and domestic virtues endeared her to all who came within her circle. The exalted miss in her an elegant companion, the poor a benevolent patroness; but her family and friends, who best knew her value, alone are able to estimate their loss.

Note 20, page 75, line 11. Lanarth.

The seat of Colonel Sandys, H. C. S. who with a numerous and charming family, lives in the constant practice of every Christian virtue.

Note 21, page 76, line 2. Enys.

The seat of Francis Enys, Esq. whose refined taste has combined the verdure of Italy with the simpler beauties of England. The urbanity of the proprietor makes this unique spot a paradise to all who are honoured by his friendship, whether they incline most to admire his genius and his learning, or the unaffected goodness of his disposition.

Note 22, page 76, line 5. Rosamundi.

At the descent of that promontory known in the topography of Cornwall by the appellation of St. Agnes' Beacon, wilt be found this enchanting spot, seat of the late John James, Esq. The idea of "the happy valley" must have been suggested by this or some similar scene, if two such can be found.

Note 23, page 78.

The Lady of Hugh Somerville, Esq. R. N.

Note 24, page 81, line 5 from bottom. Tamar.

A well known river in the vicinity of Plymouth.

Note 25, page 81, line 3 from bottom, "My thoughts are boundless, and my spirit free, "Our thoughts are boundless, and our spirits free." Vide CORSAIR.

"Our thoughts are boundless, and our spirits free." Vide CORSAIR.

THE END. Printed by W. CLOWES, Northumberland-court, Strand. [Publisher's Advertisement] Lately published, HANDSOMELY PRINTED IN OCTAVO, SECOND EDITION, PRICE TWELVE SHILLINGS IN BOARDS, DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS MARY, THE Wanderings of a Goldfinch; OR, CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES, IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. BY MRS. M'MULLAN. London: Printed for Messrs. Longman and Co. Paternoster-row; T. Egerton, Whitehall; and E. Lloyd, Harley-street.