Sivut kuvina

A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid ;
She wimpled the water to weather and lee,
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen;
The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away over river and isle,
Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke,
As slumbering he dozed in the shelve of the rock;
Astonished, to hide in the moon-beam he flew,
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.

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 !

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.

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,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace ;

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,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care !
Time but the impression deeper makes,

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,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon :
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,

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,
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord,
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame,
The battle field where Persia's victim horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word

Which uttered to the hearer's eye appear
The camp—the host~the fight the conqueror's career!

The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow,
The fiery Greek his red pursuing spear,
Mountains above-Earth's-Ocean's plain below,
Death in the front--destruction in the rear !
Such was the scene—what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?

The rifled urn-the violated mound-
The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young !

Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth : .

He that is lonely hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,

When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

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,
Mourns o'er the ruins of her transient reign,

Nor unrepining sees her visions fade.
Their parent banished, hence her children fly,

Their fairy race that filled her festive train ;
Joy rears his wreath, and hope inverts her

eye, And folly wonders that her dream was vain.



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,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To inark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermic, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,
From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace
For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers


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