SONG.
Farewell, farewell! I 'll dream no more,
'Tis misery to be dreaming:
Farewell, farewell; and I will be
At least like thee in seeming.
I will go forth to the green vale,
Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling,
Where the leaves and the birds together sing,
And the woodland fount is welling.
Not there, not there, too much of bloom
Has Spring flung o'er each blossom;
The tranquil place too much contrasts
The unrest of my bosom.
I will go to the lighted halls,
Where midnight passes fleetest;
Oh, memory there too much recalls
Of saddest and of sweetest.
I'll turn me to the gifted page,
Where the bard his soul is flinging;
Too well it echoes mine own heart
Breaking e'en while singing.
I must have rest! Oh, heart of mine,
When wilt thou lose thy sorrow?
Never, till in the quiet grave:
—Would I slept there to-morrow!
This strong tendency towards melancholy frequently led Mrs. Maclean into most erroneous views and sentiments; which, though we may make what excuses we will for them out of consideration for the author, should be heartily and honestly condemned for the sake of moral truth. For instance, when we find her saying—
Oh, when the grave shall open for me,—
(I care not how soon that time may be,—)
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and bloom;
