A WANDERER, Wilson, from my n… Remote, O Rae, from godliness and… Where rolls between us the eternal… Besides some furlongs of a foreign… Beyond the broadest Scotch of Lon…

O saw ye not fair Ines? She 's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her,

No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day… When every loyal lover tasks his w… His simple truth in studious rhyme… And to his mistress dear his hopes…

The dead are in their silent grave… And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead,

Summer is gone on swallows’ wings, And Earth has buried all her flow… No more the lark,—the linnet—sings… But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain

‘By the North Pole, I do challen… From 'Love’s Labour’s Lost.’ Paery, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the pe… On which the world is spun?

Unfathomable Night! how dost thou… Over the flooded earth, and darkly… The mighty city under thy full tid… Making a silent palace for old Sl… Like his own temple under the hush…

Alas! That breathing Vanity shoul… Where Pride is buried,—like its v… Uprisen from the naked bones below… In novel flesh, clad in the silent… Of gaudy silk that flutters to and…

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away… Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he’s poking peas into hi… Thou merry, laughing sprite!

Our hands have met, but not our he… Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once,

Mother of light! how fairly dost t… Over those hoary crests, divinely… Art thou that huntress of the silv… Fabled of old? Or rather dost tho… Those cloudy summits thence to gaz…

She’s up and gone, the graceless g… And robb’d my failing years! My blood before was thin and cold But now ’tis turn’d to tears;— My shadow falls upon my grave,

Come, let us set our careful breas… Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn; The world has many cruel points,

O’er hill, and dale, and distant s… Through all the miles that stretch… My thought must fly to rest on the… And would, though worlds should in… Nay, thou art now so dear, methink…

Tim Turpin he was gravel-blind, And ne’er had seen the skies: For Nature, when his head was mad… Forgot to dot his eyes. So, like a Christmas pedagogue,