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He died and was buried the green hillock nigh,

That rose by the side of the Cot. Then the Youth for some unknown delight heaved a sigh, The forest's wild beauties no more pleased his eye,

And the counsel of age was forgot.

'Tis said, the next morn he arose with the day,

To seek where the vision he spied :
No more in these deserts, he cry'd, will I stay,
But will seek at all risk, tho' my

The fairies that haunt the wood side.

father said nay,

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On Vorskas glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play ;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes,
- Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight he moves
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed
The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell’d,
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,

Frozen to their endless sleep,
He held undaunted on;
Him Pain hath not subdued,

What tho' he mounts not now

The fiery steed of war,
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go iron-hearted King!
Full of thy former fame.
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown;

Go iron-hearted King!
Let Narva's glory swell thy háughty breast-
The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawnd,

Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen
That on thy shame shåll set !

Now bend thine head from heaven,
Now Patkul be revenged !
For o'er that bloody Swede
Ruin hath rais'd his arm
For ere the night descends

His veteran host súbdued,
His laurels blasted to revive no more

He flies before the foe!

Long years of hope deceived
That conquered Swede must prove,
Patkul theu art avenged !
Long years of idleness
That restless soul must bear,

Patkul thou art avenged !
The Despot's savage anger took thy life,
Thy death has stabb’d his fame.

ERTHUSYO. LINES

TO A BROTHER AND SISTER,
Written soon after a Recovery from Sickness.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

I.

Tis surely hard the melancholy day

To waste without the cheering voice of friend, To see the morning dart its golden ray,

To see the night in misty dews descend,

Nor catch one sound where Love and Meekness blend; 'Tis surely hard for him who knows how dear

A kindred soul, eternally to send

A fruitless prayer for smiles and words that cheer, The wish in looks revealed and rapture's holy tear,

II.

Him whom the spirit of Attachment warms,

The nameless thrilling and the soft desire,
Him whom the glance of melting beauty charms,

Its young allurement and its living fire;

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