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« 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 a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast 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 back! come back!” he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water : “And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter !oh my daughter !”–
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore
Return or aid preventing
And he was left lamenting
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 unburied head
All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve
Launch on the water by the witches' tow'r, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r,
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 buffetings 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
understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown :He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.
ODE TO WINTER.
WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace;
Rushed into her sire's embrace:
For ever nearest to his smiles,
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.
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Howls his war-song to the gale ; Save when adown the ravageu globe
He travels on his native storm, Deflow’ring 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.
Fast descending as thou art,
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
Of innocence descend.
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
May spare the victim, fallen low;
No bounds to human wo.* * This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800 before
conclusion of hostilities.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so ost
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er And
my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.