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MORNING.

POETIC fancy rules the hour,

And temple, tree, and stream, and tower,
And lovely forms, and gorgeous ships
Arise, as bold the painter dips

His hand,—light casting, like a cloud,
O'er that deep stream and city proud.
'Tis joy's own hour; dance, song, and mirth
Seem born, no more to die on earth;
Young beauty, with her dazzling hanks
Of hair, leads forth her charming ranks:
That very sunbeam loves to shine
On scenes so fair, shapes so divine.
Claims fiction all-hath truth no part
Lent of this marvellous scene to art?
Hath woe that sweet place e'er defiled,
Hath babe wept there or mother smiled;
Hath critic there, o'er lustrous rhime,
Crawled like a snail and left his slime?
What sweet town by the desert sea

Is half so bright and fair to see,

With foaming quays and squadrons dark,

Of battle ships and trading bark?

Truth laid the line-Art brought the tinting,

Light streamed o'er all and men cried "Linton !"

EDDERLINE'S DREAM.

Canto first.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

CASTLE-OBAN is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light

That lingered on the stormy even,

A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,
Hath sunk into the weltering grave.
Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
And downwards to the fearful din,
Where Ocean with his thunder shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,
Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent

A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,

From the edge of the howling battlement !

Therein is a lonesome room,

Undisturbed as some old tomb
That, built within a forest glen,
Far from feet of living men,

And sheltered by its black pine trees
From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
Flings back its arched gateway tall,
At times to some great funeral!

Noiseless as a central cell
In the bosom of a mountain,
Where the fairy people dwell,
By the cold and sunless fountain!
Breathless as a holy shrine,

When the voice of psalms is shed!
And there upon her stately bed,
While her raven locks recline

O'er an arm more pure than snow,
Motionless beneath her head,-

And through her large fair eyelids shine
Shadowy dreams that come and go,
By too deep bliss disquieted,-

There sleeps in love and beauty's glow,
The high-born Lady Edderline.

Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light,
Glide,—gliding round the golden rim!
Restored to life, now glancing bright,
Now just expiring, faint and dim!
Like a spirit loth to die,
Contending with its destiny.
All dark! a momentary veil
Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale
Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,
And now the calm face of the saint
With every feature reappears,

Celestial in unconscious tears!

Another gleam! how sweet the while, Those pictured faces on the wall,

D

Through the midnight silence smile!

Shades of fair ones, in the aisle
Vaulted the castle cliffs below,

To nothing mouldered, one and all,
Ages long ago!

From her pillow, as if driven

By an unseen demon's hand

Disturbing the repose of heaven,

Hath fallen her head! The long black hair,

From the fillet's silken band

In dishevelled masses riven,

Is streaming downwards to the floor.

Is the last convulsion o'er?

And will that length of glorious tresses,
So laden with the soul's distresses,
By those fair hands in morning light,
Above those eyelids opening bright,
Be braided nevermore?

No, the lady is not dead,

Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed ;
Like a wrecked corse upon the shore,
That lies until the morning brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;
Or haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,

On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,

Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing,
No fading footmark see that tells
Of that poor unremembered thing!

O dreadful is the world of dreams,
When all that world a chaos seems
Of thoughts so fixed before!

When heaven's own face is tinged with blood!
And friends cross o'er our solitude,

Now friends of ours no more!

Or, dearer to our hearts than ever,

Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour,
Their pale and palsied hands,

To clasp us phantoms, as we go
Along the void like drifting snow,
To far-off nameless lands!

Yet all the while we know not why,
Nor where those dismal regions lie,
Half hoping that a curse so deep
And wild can only be in sleep,
And that some overpowering scream
Will break the fetters of the dream,

And let us back to waking life,

Filled though it be with care and strife;

Since there at least the wretch can know

The meanings on the face of woe,
Assured that no mock shower is shed
Of tears upon the real dead,

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