4.—­ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.

1. 
How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanse
Bright day’s resplendent colours fade! 
How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance
With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!

2. 
No cloud along the spangled air, 5
Is borne upon the evening breeze;
How solemn is the scene! how fair
The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

3. 
Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl; 10
Along the stillness of the night,
Her melancholy shriekings roll.

4. 
But not alone on Irvyne’s tower,
The silver moonbeam pours her ray;
It gleams upon the ivied bower, 15
It dances in the cascade’s spray.

5. 
’Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour, when man must cease to be? 
Why may not human minds unveil
The dim mists of futurity?—­ 20

6. 
’The keenness of the world hath torn
The heart which opens to its blast;
Despised, neglected, and forlorn,
Sinks the wretch in death at last.’

NOTE: 
4.—­St. Irvyne’s Tower:  Song, 1810.

5.—­BEREAVEMENT.

1. 
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,
As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, 5
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

2. 
Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death? 10
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit, that faded away with the breath. 
Eternity points in its amaranth bower,
Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, 15
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

NOTE: 
5.—­Bereavement:  Song, 1811.

6.—­THE DROWNED LOVER.

1. 
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. 
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, 5
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
‘Stay thy boat on the lake,—­dearest Henry, I come.’

2. 
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea, 10
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’ 
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, 15
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!