Glenara.

H! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;

And her sire and the people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar ;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn ;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made.
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen! When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

SONG.

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne —
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

VOL. III.

I

Song.

BADE thee stay. Too well I know

The fault was mine- mine only:

I dared not think upon the past,,
All desolate and lonely.

Yet go-ah, go! Those pleading eyes,
Those low, sweet tones, appealing
From heart to heart — ah, dare I trust
That passionate revealing.

For ah, those keen and pleading eyes
Evoke too keen a sorrow,

A pang that will not pass away
With thy wild vows to-morrow.

A love immortal and divine
Within my heart is waking;
Its dream of anguish and despair
It owns not but in breaking.

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

4

73

In the Academy of Design.

I

SAW her in the corridor,

Her form was beauty's own;
She tripped up lightly from the door,
And stood, a splendid dream, before
A portraiture by Stone.

She looked around with tranquil air
A muff before her stood;
He seemed, beside her beauty rare,
A study for a genre there

By Thomas W. Wood.

She seemed to care for him no whit,
As at her face he peered ;

No doubt she only thought him fit
For application of the wit

Of dear, facetious Beard.

He matched so ill her grace divine,

I wished he might be shot By one of those extremely fine And stately soldiers, the design

Of Mr. Julian Scott.

Her hair was auburn; fold on fold

It fell in wavy flow;

And as its glory downward rolled,

It shone with shining gleams of gold
Like sunset by Gignoux.

Her lissome grace you could perceive,
For all her rich array;

I'm sure she rivalled Powers's Eve,
And was as sweet as Genevieve

By Henry Peters Gray.

THE PORTRAIT.

But oh, the splendor of her eyes!
Deep as the deepest sea!

As radiant as the stars that rise,
As fathomless as summer skies
By Jervis M'Entee!

She shone the brightest jewel there,
Among those gems of art;
With manners gay and debonair,
More brightly, softly, sweetly fair
Than autumn scene by Hart.

Methinks upon that lily hand
I fain would place a ring;
With her before the altar stand

And hear, with joy, the accents bland
Of Dr. S. H. Tyng.

DAVID L. PROUDFIT.

75

The Portrait.

MIDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught

Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.

I sat by the dying fire and thought

Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

Nobody with me my, watch to keep,

But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep

In the chamber up above.

Nobody else in the country-place

All round that knew of my loss beside,

But the good young priest with the Raphael-face Who confessed her when she died.

That good young priest is of gentle nerve,

And my grief had moved him beyond control;

For his lip grew white as I could observe
When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone :

I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone : The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes

When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept ; For each ruby there my heart hath bled:

For each pearl my eyes have wept."

They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay : It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,

And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet;
There, stark she lay on her carven bed:

Seven burning tapers about her feet,

And seven about her head.