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A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke,
Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch. He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, As begging for something he could not obtain ; She raised him indignant, derided his stay, Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.
Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side ; “ Macgregor! Macgregor!” he bitterly cried ; “ Macgregor! Macgregor !” the echoes replied. He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream; But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain, Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away; Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye !
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
That lovest to greet the early morn,
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget ?
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
To live one day of parting love?
Those records dear of transports past;
Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene, The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
And fondly broods with miser care !
As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast?
ON THE PLAIN OF MARATHON. Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground, No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould !
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone : Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.
The sun--the soil--but not the slave the same,
Which uttered to the hearer's eye appear
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow,
The rifled urn-the violated mound-
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
He that is lonely hither let him roam,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
THE VISIONS OF FANCY. Ou ! yet, ye dear, deluding visions, stay!
Fond hopes, of innocence and fancy born! For you I'll cast these waking thoughts away,
For one wild dream of life's romantic morn. Ah! no: the sunshine o'er each object spread
By flattering hope,-the flowers that blew so fair, Like the gay gardens of Armida fled,
And vanished from the powerful rod of care. So the poor pilgrim, who, in rapturous thought,
Plans his dear journey to Loretto's shrine, Seems on his way by guardian seraphs brought,
Sees aiding angels favour his design. Ambrosial blossoms,--such of old as blew
By those fresh founts on Eden's happy plain, And Sharon's roses,-all his passage strew:
So fancy dreams; but fancy's dreams are vain, Wasted and weary on the mountain's side,
His way unknown, the hapless pilgrim lies; Or takes some ruthless robber for his guide,
And prone beneath his cruel sabre dies. Life's morning landscape gilt with orient light,
Where hope, and joy, and fancy hold their reign,The grove's green wave, the blue stream sparkling bright,
The blithe hours dancing round Hyperion's wain,-
In radiant colours youth's free hand portrays,
Then holds the fattering tablet to his eye ; Nor thinks how soon the vernal grove decays,
Nor sees the dark cloud gathering o'er the sky. Hence fancy, conquered by the dart of pain,
And wandering far from her Platonic shade,
Nor unrepining sees her visions fade.
Their fairy race that filled her festive train ;
eye, And folly wonders that her dream was vain.
WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE,
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood, All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree: And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode
To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
To inark where a garden had been.
All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,