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Outspoke the hardy Highland-wight:
It is not for your silver bright,
And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are .raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.
By this the storm grew loud apace;
The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
Adown the glen rode armed men;
O haste thee, haste! the lady cries.
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
The boat has left n stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,—
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters faRt prevailing:
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:
And one was round her lover.
Come hack! come back! he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water;
My daughter!—oh my daughter!
Twa» vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
And he was left lamenting.
ODE TO WINTER
Wag* first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children fonr the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing.
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing.
Rushed into her sire's embrace;
(Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-covered isles)
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of Vintage bowed before his
throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar
O Sire of Storms! whose Ravage ear
But chiefly spare, oh King of Clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh winds of winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start ye, demons of the midnight-air.
At shrieks and thunders louder than your
LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.
By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless
dead; For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburicd headAll from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at ere Launch on that water by the witches'tower, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted
They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN tRGYI.KSHIRE.
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower • Where the home of my forefnthers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trodc To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew From each wandering sun - beam a lonely
embrace; For (he nighl-wced and thorn overshadow'd the place
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, But patience shall never depart!
Though the wilds of enchnntment, all vernal
delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night And leave but a desert behind.
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom con-
A thousand wild waves on the shore! Through the perils of chance and the scowl of disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in
vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:— To bear is to conquer our fate.
OH THE FLOWER OF I.OVE LIBS BLEBVING.
Oh! once the harp of Innisfail
Was strung full high to notes of gladness; Bnt yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing Badness.
As winds that moan at night forlorn
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn. The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men. Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt; Say, why should dwell in place so wild O'Connor's pale and lovely child if
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power. As, in the palace of her sires.
She bloomed a peerless flower.
The royal broche, the jewelled ring.
Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern. While yet in Leinster unexplored Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast? Why wanders she a huntress wild. O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wilriness; And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness? Dishcvell'd arc her raven-locks;
On ("iiiiii or lit Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Bright as the how that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light—a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad: Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tasscl'd horn beside him laid; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits.
The hunter and the deer a shade! Sweet mourner! those arc shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain; Yet she will tell you she is blest, Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed, More richly than in Aghrim's bower, When bards high praised her beauty's power, And kneeling pages offer'd up The morat in a golden cup.
A hero's bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding: And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call—My love lies bleeding? This purple flower ray tears have nursed;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom: I love it, for it was the first
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice! This desert mansion is my choice! And blest, though fatal, be the star That led mc to its Wilds afar: For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me; And every rock and every stone Bare witness that he was my own.
O'Connor's child, I was the bud
Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
The tissue of my story!
A death-scene rushes on my sight;
The bloody feud—the fatal night. When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, They eali'd my hero basely born, And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of pride.
Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the pale,
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me
That barons by your standard rode. Or beal-fires for your jubilee
Upon an hundred mountains glowed? What though the lords of tower and dome, From Shannon to the North-sea-foam,— Thought ye your iron bands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied? No:—let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun That could not, would not, be undone!
At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love—"Oh, come with inc: Our bark is on the lake, behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. Come far from Castle-Connor's clans—
Come with thy belted fnrestere, And I, beside the lake of swans,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb; And berries from the wood provide. And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love!"—How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way. And I pursued, by moonless skies. The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.
And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring rushed we through the glade. And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade!
Of this nnplnugh'd, untrodden shore;
For man's neglect we loved it more.
When all was hushed, at even-tide,
Be hushed! ray Connneht Moran cried,
Tig but tlie screaming of the eagle. Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound;
Their bloody hands had track'd us out; Up listening starts our couchant hound—
And, hark! again, that nearer shout
Another's and another's;
Ah me! it was a brother's!
Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Alas', my warrior's spirit brave, Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard
Lamenting soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay I knew not, for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 'Twas hut when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb. And check'd my bosom's power to sob; Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear.
But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire:
A prophetess's fire.
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had rnvaged Ulster's boundaries. And lighted up the midnight-skies. That standard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay; That standard, with so dire a look. As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail.
And go! (I cried) the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappnlled bore
Go!—and return no more!
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand.
Beneath a sister's curse uuroU'd.
0 stranger! by my country's loss! And by my love! and by the cross!
1 swear I never could have spoke
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
They would have cross'd themselves, all mute;
They would have pray'd to burst the spell; But, at the stamping of my foot,
Each hand down pow'rless fell! And go to Athunrce! (I cried) High lift the banner of your pride! But know that where its sheet unrolls The weight of blood is on your souls! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain-fern! Men shall no more your mansion know; The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Dead, as the green oblivions flood
That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O'Connor's blood!
Away! away to Athunree! Where, downward when the sun shall faU, The raven's wing shall be your pall! And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face!
A bolt that overhung our dome,
Suspended till my curse was given. Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam.
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,
Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumed partizans; Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom: A sudden storm their plumage tossed. A flash 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; I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall. And took it down, and vowed to rove
This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would 1 change my buried love
For nny heart of living mould. No! for I am a hero's child, Fll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make. Of all unheeded and unheeding. And cherish, for my warrior's sake. The flower of love lies bleeding.
TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.
Soci. of the Poet! whcresoc'er.
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality;
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.
And fly, like fiends from secret spell,
And love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstasies
With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,—
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else hitter cup distill il.
Who that lias melted o'er his lay
Nnr skill'd one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride- he taught!—how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.
Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse
Entranced, and showed him all the forms
Of fairy-light and wizard-gloom,
(That only gifted poet views)
The genii of the floods nnd storms.
And martial shade from glory's tomb.
On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom Bi Rns's song inspires?
Beat not his Caledonian veins,
A« o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,
And all their scorn of death and chains?
And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
By many a far and foreign clime.
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory 0f his native land,
With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.
Encamped by Indian rivers wild.
The soldier, resting on his nnns,
In BrnNs's carol sweet recals
The scenes that blest him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.
O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife.
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the Btream of life;
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the muse that consecrates
And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume;
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall;
Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?
Such was the soldier—Burns, forgive
Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare