Tho' 'tis felt by all that move.
It is known--but not reveal'd,
'Tis a knowledge ever seal'd!
Dwells it in the tearful eye
Of congenial sympathy?
'Tis a radiance of the mind,
'Tis a feeling undefin'd,
'Tis a wonder-working spell,
'Tis a magic none can tell,
'Tis a charm unutterable.

LEAR.

* * * * *


GRAYSTEIL.[1]

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD.

(_For the Mirror_.)


Beneath the Douglas plaid, he wore a grinding shirt of mail;
Yet, spite of pain and weariness, press'd on that gallant Gael:
On, on, beside his regal foe, with eyes which more express'd
Than _words_, expecting favour still, from him who _once_ caress'd!

"_'Tis_," quoth the prince, "my poor Graysteil!" and spurr'd his steed
amain,