Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neid path's tower
To watch her love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,

Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers, to see and hear,
Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,
She heard her lover's riding;

Ere scarce a distant form was kenned,
She knew, and waved to greet him;
And o'er the battlement did bend,
As on the wing to meet him.

He came he passed-a heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing,
Her welcome spoke, in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan,
Which told her heart was broken.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804.

Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808.

THE Forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby:-

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled ake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak—

That mingles with the stormy breeze,

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 passed.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze.
The spectre with his bloody hand

Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty! wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.

"Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines with whistling change
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!

Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,

Were hovering near your mountain strand.

"Oh, yet awake the strain to tell,
By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach, first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir,

"By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Arise, the mighty strain to tell;
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"
The wind is hushed, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years-
"When targets clashed, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,

And hymned the joys of Liberty!"

TO A LADY,

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1308. TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, On the ruined rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there: They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE VIOLET.

Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808
THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,

Ere yet the day be passed its morrow;

Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

HUNTING SONG.

Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1805.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay!

On the mountain dawns the day,

All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear;

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
Aud foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;

Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,-
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE RESOLVE.

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM. Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808 MY wayward fate I needs must plain, Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,

Yet all was but a dream:

For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot

Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambushed Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:

I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,

The diamond's ray abides,

The flame its glory hurls about,

The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deemed was mine,
And glowed a diamond stone,

But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain;
No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall tangle me again:

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own,

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,—
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,-
"Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be wildly blessed,
To be so strangely crossed:

The widowed turtles mateless die,

The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I,—

I'll rather dwell alone."

THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON;

OR,

THE DYING BARD.

THE Welsh tradition bears, that a bard on his deathbed demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.

Air-Daffydz Gangwen.

I.

DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi CADWALLON shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonoured shall flourish, unhonoured shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue
That viewed them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?