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Was Edward Mansell once;—the lightest heart,
his father swore, 6. 'Twas but a trick of youth would soon be o'er, Himself had done the same some thirty years before."
But he whose humours spurn law's awful yoke,
Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades along,
The wading moon, with storm-presaging gleam,
and now withheld her doubtful beam; The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high, Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere, In Malwood-walk
Mansell watch'd the deer: The fattest buck received his deadly shotThe watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot. Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife, O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew his knife. Next morn a corpse was found upon
the fellThe rest his waking agony may tell !
WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN THE
AUTUMN OF 1804.1
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine and the dark oak-tree;
Is whistling the forest lullaby:
That mingles with the groaning oak-
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.
“ Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
[This poem was first published in the “ English Minstrelsy," 2 vols. Edin. 1810.]
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,'
“ Souls of the mighty, wake and say,
To what high strain your harps were strung,
And on your shores her Norsemen flung ?
Upon the midnight breeze sail by
Mimic the harp's wild harmony !
By every deed in song enrollid,
For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.
Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.
*The Galgacus of Tacitus.
• By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell !
Arise, the mighty strain to tell !
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
At the dread voice of other years“ When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, And blades round warrior's heads were flung, The foremost of the band were we, And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!"
“O, OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind ! The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.
“No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the King's deer,
Might claim compassion here.
* [This, and the two following, were first published in Haydn's Collection of Scottish Airs, vol. ii. Edin. 1806.] hhh