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KILMENY'S RETURN FROM FAIRY LAND.
WHEN seven lang years had come and fled;
When grief was calm, and hope was dead;
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name,
Late, late in a gloamin', Kilmeny cam' hame,
And 0, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her e'e !
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
And the soft desire of maidens een
In that mild face could never be seen,
Her seymar was the lilly flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodie
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to rake the lanely glen,
And keepit afar frae the haunts of men;
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But, wherever her peaceful form appeared,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheered:
The wolf played blithely round the field,
The lordly byson lowed and kneeled;
The dun-deer wooed with manner bland,
And cowered aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung,
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
0, then the glen was all in motion:
The wild beasts of the forest came;
Broke from their bughts and faulds the tamc,
And goved around, charmed and amazed;
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
And murmured, and looked with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain,
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock,
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird along wi' the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern atour them hung,
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young;
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:
It was like an eve in a sinless world!
A LITTLE way
He turned aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,
By a gray mountain's stream; just elevate
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene,
In early summer, when those antique trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green.
But, save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate, and now all wore
One sober hue; the narrow vale, which wound
Among the hills, was gray with rocks, that peered
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was with loose stones bestrewn, which oftentimes,
Sliding beneath the foot of straggling goat,
Clattered adown the steep; or huger crags,
Which, when the coming frost should loosen them,
Would thunder down. All things assorted well
With that gray mountain hue; the low stone lines,
Which scarcely seemed to be the work of man,
The dwelling, rudely reared with stones unhewn,
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees,
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white-barked birch, now leafless, and the ash,
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock,
Where they had forced their way. Adown the vale,
Broken by stones, and o’er a stony bed,
Rolled the loud mountain stream.
O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound,