O’erlooked the valley from the old oak wood,
  A lake blue gleaming from deep forest bowers,
  Spread its fair mirror to the landscape rude: 
  Oft by the margin of that quiet flood,
  And through the groves and hoary ruins round,
  Young Arthur loved to roam in lonely mood;
  Or here, amid tradition’s haunted ground,
  Long silent hours to lie in mystic musings drowned.

* * * * *

Here Arthur loved to roam—­a dreaming boy—­
Erewhile romantic reveries to frame,
Or read adventurous tales with thrilling joy. 
Till his young breast throbbed high with thirst of fame;
But with fair manhood’s dawn a softer flame
’Gan mingle with his martial musings high;
And trembling wishes—­which he feared to name,
Yet oft betrayed in many a half-drawn sigh—­
Told that the hidden shaft deep in his heart did lie.

  And there were eyes that from long silken lashes
  With stolen glance could spy his secret pain—­
  Sweet hazel eyes, whose dewy light out-flashes
  Like joyous day-spring after summer rain;
  And she, the enchantress, loved the youth again
  With maiden’s first affection, fond and true,
  —­Ah! youthful love is like the tranquil main,
  Heaving ’neath smiling skies its bosom blue—­
  Beautiful as a spirit—­calm, but fearful too!

Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as these:—­

  A gentle star lights up their solitude
  And lends fair hues to all created things;
  And dreams alone of beings pure and good
  Hover around their hearts with angel wings—­
  Hearts, like sweet fountains sealed, where silent rapture springs.

Here is a beautiful apostrophe—­

  Oh Nature! by impassioned hearts alone
  Thy genuine charms are felt.  The vulgar mind
  Sees but the shadow of a power unknown;
  Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind
  And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned: 
  But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire
  Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined
  In that diviner fane where Love’s pure fire
  Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal Lyre!

The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows “in battalions” compel them to emigrate and bid

  Farewell to the scenes they ne’er shall visit more.

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination is with the following exquisite ballad:—­

  Our native land, our native vale,
    A long and last adieu! 
  Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,
    And Cheviot mountains blue.

  Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
    And streams renowned in song: 
  Farewell, ye blithsome braes and meads
    Our hearts have loved so long.