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Outspoke the hardy Highland-wight: (Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :
For ever nearest to his smiles, It is not for your silver bright,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, But for your winsome lady:
On India's citron-covered isles)
More remote and buxom-brown, And, by my word! the bonny bird The Queen of Vintage bowed before his In danger shall not tarry;
throne; So, though the waves are wraging white, A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, I'll row you o'er the ferry.
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar-star; Grew dark as they were speaking. And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side; But still, as wilder blew the wind,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden And as the night grew drearer,
Whirls to death the roaring whale; Adown the glen rode armed men;
Round the hall where runic Odin Their trampling sounded nearer.
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravag'd globe 0 haste thee, haste! the lady cries,
le travels on his native storm, Though tempests round us gather;
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, I'll meet the raging of the skies,
And trampling on her faded form: But not an angry father.
Till light's returning lord assume
The shast that drives him to his polar-field, The boat has left a stormy land,
Of power to pierce his raven plume A stormy sea before her,
And crystal-covered shield.
The tempest gathered o'er her.
O Sire of Storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland-drum delights to hear, Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore: When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye His wrath was changed to wailing.
Implores thy dreadful deity:
Archangel! power of desolation! For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, Fast descending as thou art, His child he did discover:
Say, hath mortal invocation One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
Spells to touch thy stony heart? And one was round her lover.
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year; Come back! come back! he cried in grief,
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Across this stormy water;
Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear; And I'll forgive your Highland-chief.
To shuddering want's unmantled bed My daughter!-oh my daughter!
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend;
And gently on the orphan-head 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, of innocence descend.
Return or aid preventing :
But chiefly spare, oh King of Clouds!
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 1800.
Oh winds of winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan; WABN first the fiery-mantled Sun
Or start ye, demons of the midnight-air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your His heavenly race began to run,
own? Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew.
Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath First, in green apparel dancing,
May spare the victim, fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,
No bounds to human woe.
LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal
and bright, By strangers left upon a lonely shore, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless With the vanishing phantoms of love and
delight, For child to weep, or widow to deplore, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, There never came to his unburied head And leave but a desert behind. All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches' tower, Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom conWhere hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
demns Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, When the faint and the feeble deplore; For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore ! Through the perils of chance and the scowl
of disdain, They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage Whose crime it was, on life's unfinished road,
elate! To feel the stepdame-buffetings of fate,
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in And render back thy being's heavy load.
vain Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance In thy devoted bosom--and the hand That emote its kindred heart might yet be
again:To bear is to conquer our fate.
prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown? He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.
OR TRB FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.
WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.
L I N E S
On! once the harp of Innisfail
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale At the silence of twilight's contemplative Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall, I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood
As winds that moan at night forlorn On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; From any path of social men,
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt;
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green, Sweet lady! she no more inspires One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
To mark where a garden had been. As, in the palace of her sires, Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, She bloomed a peerless flower.
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, From each wandering sun-beam a lonely The royal broche, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fall’n her brother's kerne Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored
Her friends survive the English sword; Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Why lingere she from Erin's host
That remains in this desolate heart! So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast? The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, Why wanders she a huntress wild, But patience shall never depart!
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ?
And fix'd on empty space, why burn Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Her eyes with inomentary wildness; Was sung in Tara's psaltery;. And wherefore do they then return
Witness their Eath's victorious brand, To more than woman's mildness?
And Cathal of the bloody hand: Dishevellid are her raven-locks;
Glory (they said) and power and honour On Connocht Moran's name she calls; Were in the mansion of O'Conuor; And oft amidst the lonely rocks
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.
Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
Ye fought the English of the pale, The living and the dead can meet :
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry ? For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
And what was it to love and me The hero of her heart is nigh.
That barons by your standard rode, Or beal-fires for your jubilee
Upon an hundred mnountains glowed ? Bright as the bow that spans the storm, What though the lords of tower and dome, In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
From Shannon to the North-sea-foam, A son of light--a lovely form,
Thought ye your iron hands of pride He comes and makes her glad:
Could break the knot that love had tied ? Now on the grass-green turf he sits, No:- let the eagle change his plume,
His tassel'd horn beside hin laid ; The leaf its huc, the flower its bloom ; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, But ties around this heart were spun
The hunter and the deer a shade! That could not, would not, be undone! Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain; Yet she will tell you she is blest,
At bleating of the wild watch-fold Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed, Thus sang my love—“Oh, come with me: More richly than in Aghrim's bower, Our bark is on the lake, behold When bards high praised her beauty's power, Our steeds are fastend to the tree. And kneeling pages offer'd up
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans-
Come with thy belted forestere,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer;
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb;
To call--My love lies bleeding ? And play my clarshech by thy side.
A hero's blood supplied its bloom : Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, I love it, for it was the first
And I pursued, by moonless skies,
Of day-spring rushed we through the glade,
Of Castle-Connor fade! And every rock and every stone
Sweet was to us the hermitage Bare witness that he was my own.
of this unplough’d, antrodden shore ; Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we loved it more. O'Connor's child, I was the bud
And well he knew, my huntsman dear, Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
To search the game with hawk and spear; But woe to them that wrapt in blood While I, his evening-food to dress, The tissue of my story!
Would sing to him in happiness. Still as I clasp my burning brain, But, oh, that midnight of despair!
A death-scene rushes on my sight; When I was doom'd to rend my hair: It rises o'er and o'er again,
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! The bloody feud--the fatal night, The night, to him, that had no morrow! When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, They call'd my hero basely born, And bade him choose a meaner bride When all was hushed, at even-tide, Than from O'Connor's house of pride. I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hushed ! my Connocht Moran cried, O stranger! by my country's loss !
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. And by my love! and by the cross ! Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound;
I swear I never could have spoke Their bloody bands had track'd us out; The curse that severed nature's yoke, Up listening starts our couchant hound- But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And, hark! again, that nearer shout And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
They would have cross'd themselves, all
mute; And every hand that dealt the blow
They would have pray'd to burst the spell; Ah me! it was a brother's !
But, at the stamping of my foot,
Each hand down pow'rless fell!
But know that where its sheet unrolls
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Shall float as high as mountain-fern ! Alas! my warrior's spirit brave,
Men shall no more your mansion know; Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard
The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Lamenting soothe his grave.
Dead, as the green oblivious flood Dragged to their hated mansion back,
That mantles by your walls, shall be How long in thraldom's grasp I lay
The glory of O'Connor's blood! I knew not, for my soul was black,
Away! away to Athunree! And knew no change of night or day.
Where, downward when the sun shall fall, One night of horror round me grew;
The raven's wing shall be your pall! Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
And not a vassal shall unlace 'Twas but when those grim visages,
The vizor from your dying face!
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw :
But now, behold! like cataracts, I woke, and felt upon my lips
Come down the hills in view A prophetess's fire.
O'Connor's plumed partizans ; Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
Were marching to their doom :
A sudden storm their plumage tossed,
A fiash of lightning o'er them crossed,
And all again was gloom!
Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; That standard, with so dire a look,
I found the helmet of my chief, As ghastly shone the moon and pale,
His bow still hanging on our wall, I gave, that every bosom shook
And took it down, and vowed to rove
This desert place a huntress bold;
For any heart of living mould.
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make, Go and return no more!
Of all unheeded and unheeding, For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand
And cherish, for my warrior's sake, Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The flower of love lies bleeding. The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unrolld.
! TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.
O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
And sages calm, the stream of life;
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath
Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates And fly, like fiends from secret spell, To sweep the field or ride the wave, Discord and strife at Burns's name,
A sunburst in the storm of death. Exorcis'd by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell And thou, young hero, when thy pall The heart with songs of social flame Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume; And high delicious revelry.
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall; And love's own strain to him was given, Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb, To warble all its ecstasies
And greet with fame thy gallant shade? With Pythian words unsought, unwillid, Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, Such was the soldier-Burns, forgive The choicest sweet of Paradise,
That sorrows of mine own intrude In life's else bitter cup distillid.
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live, Who that has melted o'er his lay
The friend I mourned—the brave, the goodTo Mary's soul in Heaven above,
Edward that died at Waterloo ! But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That smiled upon their mutual love- That couldst alternately impart Who that has felt forgets the song ? Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong ; Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, His country's high-sould peasantry Whose truths electrify the sage. What patriot-pride he taught!-how much To weigh the inborn worth of man! Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare And rustic life and poverty
To wring one baleful poison'd drop Grow beautiful beneath his touch. From the crush'd laurels of thy bust;
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
TO THE RAINBOW.
When storms prepare to part,
To teach me what thou art. And all their scorn of death and chains ?
Still seem as to my childhood's sight, And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
A midway-station given
For happy spirits to alight
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face
To cold material laws!