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Outspoke the hardy Highland-wight:
I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:

It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

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,
And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men;
Their trampling sounded nearer.

O haste thee, haste! the lady cries.
Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.

The boat has left n stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters faRt prevailing:
Lord Lllin reached that fatal shore:

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

Come hack! come back! he cried in grief,

Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland-chief.

My daughter!—oh my daughter!

Twa» vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

ODE TO WINTER

1800.

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
To hills that prop the polar-star;
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side;
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to denth the roaring whale;
Hound the hall where runic Odin
Hum Is his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm.
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar-field.
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-covered shield.

O Sire of Storms! whose Ravage ear
The Lapland-drum delights to hear.
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity:
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony hearty
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer.
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare.
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;
To shuddering want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend;
And gently on the orphan-head
Of innocence descend.

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

own?
Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath
May spare the victim, fallen low;
Hut man will nsk no truce to death,
No bounds to human woe.

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

hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was. on life's unfinished road,
To feel the stepdame-buflctings of fate.
And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom—and the hand
That smote its kindred heart might yet be.

prone
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee.

alone.

LINKS

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
and bright.
In the days of delusion by fancv eombin'd
With the vanishing phantoms of love and

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-
demns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
Be strong as the rork of the ocean that stems

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.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD,

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.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,

As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

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.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone.

The royal broche, the jewelled ring.
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,

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.
Plac'd in the foxglove and the moss.
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet.
The living and the dead can meet:
For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

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;
But woe to them that wrapt in blood

The tissue of my story!
Still as I clasp ray burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o'er and o'er again,

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,
Was sung in Tarn'B psaltery;.
Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cutluil of the bloody hand:
Glory (they said) and power and honour
Were in the mansion of O'Connor;
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.

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!
Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this nnplnugh'd, untrodden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage,

For man's neglect we loved it more.
And well he knew, my huntsman dear.
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening-food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But, oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was dooni'd to rend my hair:
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!

When all was hushed, at even-tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:

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
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare, spare him—Brazil -DeRmond fierce!
In vain—no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms:
Another's sword has laid him low—

Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt the blow—

Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yea, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial-turf they trod,
And I beheld—oh God! oh God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod!

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:
I woke, and felt upon my lips

A prophetess's fire.
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,

I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat.

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
The anguish of a sister's shriek;

Go!—and return no more!
For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand

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
The curse that severed nature's yoke,
But that a spirit o'er me stood,

And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of heaven.

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.

ODE

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,
Discord and strife at Birns's name,
Exorcis'd by liis memory;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame
And high delicious revelry.

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
To Mary's soul in Heaven above.
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love—
Who that lias felt forgets the song?

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
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath
Hose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

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
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live,
The friend I mourned—the brave, the good—
Edward that died at Waterloo!

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page.
And brand each vice with satire strong;
Whose lines are mottoeB of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison'd drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust;
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim Btop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

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