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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:
(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.
And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
I'll row you o'er the ferry.
By this the storm grew loud apace;
But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar-star; Grew dark as they were speaking. And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side ; But still, as wilder blew the wind,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden And as the night grew drearer,
Whirls to death the roaring whale; Adown the glen rode armed men;
Round the hall where runic Odin Their trampling sounded nearer.
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravagd globe O haste thee, haste! the lady cries,
He travels on his native storm, Though tempests round us gather;
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, I'll meet the raging of the skies,
And trampling on her faded form: But not an angry father.
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar-field, The boat has left a stormy land,
Of power to pierce his raven plame A stormy sea before her,
And crystal-covered shield.
The tempest gathered o'er her.
10 Sire of Storms! whose savage ear Of waters fast prevailing :
| The Lapland-drum delights to hear, Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore:
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye His wrath was changed to wailing.
Implores thy dreadful deity:
Archangel! power of desolation! For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
Fast descending as thou art, His child he did discover:
Say, hath mortal invocation One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
Spells to touch thy stony heart? And one was round her lover.
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year; Come back! come back! he cried in grief,
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Across this stormy water;
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; And I'll forgive your Highland-chief.
To shuddering want's unmantled bed My daughter!-oh my daughter!
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend ;
And gently on the orphan-head 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Of innocence descend.
| But chiefly spare, oh King of Clonde !
The sailor on his airy shrouds;
| 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
Or start ye, demons of the midnight-air, WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun
At shrieks and thunders louder than your His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blge
Alas ! e'en your unhallowed breath
May spare the victim, fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,
No bounds to human woe.
LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. | Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal
and bright, By strangers left upon a lonely shore, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless With the vanishing phantoms of love and dead;
delight, For child to weep, or widow to deplore, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night. There never came to his unburied head And leave but a desert behind. All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches' tower, Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom conWhere hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
demns Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, When the faint and the feeble deplore; For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stema
A thousand wild waves on the shore ! Through the perils of chance and the scowl
of disdain, They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! Whose crime it was, on life's unfinished road,
May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage To feel the stepdame-buffetings of fate,
elate! And render back thy being's heavy load.
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in
vain Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed shoulos
ed Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance In thy devoted bosom-and the hand That smote its kindred heart might yet be
again :To bear is to conquer our fate. prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown? He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.
OR THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING. LINES
On! once the harp of Innisfail WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale At the silence of twilight's contemplative of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall, I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood
As winds that moan at night forlorn On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn. Where the home of my forefathers stood. The harper told, how lone, how far All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, From any mansion's twinkling star,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; From any path of social men,
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt; To his hills that encircle the sea.
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green, Swcet lady! she no more inspires One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power:
To mark where a garden had been. As, in the palace of her sires, Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, She bloomed a peerless flower,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew | Gone from her hand and bosom, gone. From each wandering sun-beam a lonely The royal broche, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd Like dews on lilies of the spring..
Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored
Her friends survive the English word: Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Why lingers she from Erin's host
Tbat remains in this desolate heart! So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, Why wanders she a huntress wild, But patience shall never depart!
| O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
And fix'd on empty space, why burn | Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Her eyes with momentary wildness; Was sung in Tara's psaltery; And wherefore do they then return
Witness their Eath's victorious brand, To more than woman's mildness?
And Cathal of the bloody hand: Dishevell'd are her raven-locks;
Glory (they said) and power and honour On Connocht Moran's name she calls; Were in the mansion of O'Connor; And ost amidst the lonely rocks
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.
Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
Ye fought the English of the pale, The living and the dead can meet :
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry ? For, lo! to love-Jorn fantasy,
And what was it to love and me The hero of her heart is nigh.
That barons by your standard rode, Or beal-fires for your jubilee
Upon an hundred mountains glowed ? Bright as the bow that spans the storm, What though the lords of tower and dome, In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
From Shannon to the North-sea-foam,A son of light--a lovely form,
Thought ye your iron hands of pride He comes and makes her glad:
Could break the knot that love had tied ? Now on the grass-green turf he sits, No:-let the eagle change his plume,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid; The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, | But ties around this heart were spun
The hunter and the deer a shade! That could not, would not be undone! Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain ; Yet she will tell you she is blest,
At bleating of the wild watch-fold Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed,
Thus sang my love—“Oh, come with me: More richly than in Aghrim's bower, Our bark is on the lake, behold When bards high praised her beauty's power, Our steeds are fastend to the tree. And kneeling pages offer'd ap
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans-
Come with thy belted forestere,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; A hero's bride! this desert bower,
And build thy hut, and bring thee home It ill befits thy gentle breeding :
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb; And wherefore dost thou love this flower And berries from the wood provide, To call-My love lies bleeding?
And play my clarshech by thy side. This purple flower my tears have nursed; Then come, my love !" —How could I stay?
A hero's blood supplied its bloom: Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, I love it, for it was the first
| And I pursued, by moonless skies,
Of day-spring rushed we through the glade,
* Of Castle-Connor fade! And every rock and every stone
Sweet was to us the hermitage Bare witness that he was my own.
of this unplough’d, untrodden shore ; Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we loved it more. O'Connor's child, I was the bud
And well he knew, my huntsman dear, Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
To search the game with hawk and spear; But woe to them that wrapt in blood While I, his evening-food to dress, The tissue of my story!
Would sing to him in happiness. Still as I clasp my burning brain,
But, oh, that midnight of despair! A death-scene rushes on my sight; When I was doom'd to rend my hair: It rises o'er and o'er again,
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! The bloody feud--the fatal night, The night, to him, that had no morrow! When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, They call'd my hero basely born, And bade him choose a meaner bride When all was hushed, at even-tide, Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 1 I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hushed ! my Connocht Moran cried, 10 stranger! by my country's loss!
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. And by my love! and by the cross ! Alas! 'twas not the cyrie's sound;
I swear I never could have spoke Their bloody bands had track'd us out; The curse that severed nature's yoke, Up listening starts our couchant hound - But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And, hark! again, that nearer shout And fired me with the wrathful mood; Brings faster on the murderers.
And frenzy to my heart was given,
They would have cross'd themselves, all Another's and another's;
mute; And every hand that dealt the blow
They would have pray'd to burst the spell; Ah me! it was a brother's!
But, at the stamping of my foot, Yes, when his moanings died away,
Each hand down pow'rless fell! Their iron hands had dug the clay, And go to Athunree! (I cried) And o'er his burial-turf they trod,
High lift the banner of your pride! And I beheld-oh God! oh God!
But know that where its sheet unrolls His life-blood oozing from the sod!
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Shall float as high as mountain-fern! Alas! my warrior's spirit brave,
Men shall no more your mansion know; Nor mass nor ulla-lula heard
The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Lamenting soothe his grave.
Dead, as the green oblivious flood Dragged to their hated mansion back,
That mantles by your walls, shall be How long in thraldom's grasp I lay:
The glory of O'Connor's blood!
Away! away to Athunree !
Where, downward when the sun shall fall, One night of horror round me grew;
The raven's wing shall be your pall! Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
And not a vassal shall unlace 'Twas but when those grim visages,
The vizor from your dying face! The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's power to sob; | A bolt that overhung our dome, Or when my heart with pulses drear | Suspended till my curse was given, Beat like a death-watch' to my ear. Soon as it pass’d these lips of foam,
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
The angry parting brothers threw: Did with a vision bright inspire:
But now, behold! like cataracts, I woke, and felt upon my lips
Come down the hills in view A prophetess's fire.
O'Connor's plumed partizans ; Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
Were marching to their doom : And ranged, as to the judgment-seat,
A sudden storm their plumage tossed. My guilty, trembling brothers round.
A fiash of lightning o'er them crossed, Clad in the helm and shield they came;
And all again was gloom!
Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; That standard, with so dire a look,
I found the helmet of my chief, As ghastly shone the moon and pale,
His bow still hanging on our wall, I gave, that every bosom shook
And took it down, and vowed to rove Beneath its iron mail.
This desert place a huntress bold;
For any heart of living mould.
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make, Go!and return no more!
Of all unheeded and unheeding, For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand
And cherish, for my warrior's sake, Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The flower of love lies bleeding. The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's Purse unrollid.
10 deem not,' 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings;
| Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life;
| 'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath
Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates And fly, like fiends from secret spell, To sweep the field or ride the wave, Discord and strife at Burns's name, A sunburst in the storm of death. Exorcis'd by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell And thou, young hero, when thy pall The heart with songs of social flame Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume; And high delicious revelry.
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall; And love's own strain to him was given | Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb, To warble all its ecstasies
And greet with fame thy gallant shade? With Pythian words unsought, unwillid,Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, Such was the soldier--Burns, forgive The choicest sweet of Paradise,
That sorrows of mine own intrude In life's else bitter cup distillid.
In strains to thy great memory due. "
In verse like thine, oh! could he live, Who that has melted o'er his lay
The friend I mourned-the brave, the goodTo Mary's soul in Heaven above,
Edward that died at Waterloo ! But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That smiled upon their mutual love That couldet alternately impart Who that has felt forgets the song ? Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong ; Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.
To wring one baleful poison'd drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust;
| But while the lark sings sweet in air, Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, Entranced, and showed him all the forms To bless the spot that holds thy dust. Of fairy-light and wizard-gloom, (That only gifted poet views) The genii of the floods and storms, And martial shade from glory's tomb.
TO THE RAINBOW.
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy With all the spirit of his sires,
To teach me what thou art. And all their scorn of death and chains ?
Still seem as to my childhood's sight, And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
A midway-station given
For happy spirits to alight
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face
To cold material laws!