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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,-
When oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin 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 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
The waters wild went o'er his child-

And he was left lamenting




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.


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;
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 death the roaring whale,
Round the ball where Runic Odin

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.
Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity.
Archangel ! power of desolation !

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then sullen Winter hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year ;
Nor chill the wand'rer'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, O 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


To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas! ev’n your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim, fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death, -

No bounds to human wo.* * This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800 before

conclusion of hostilities.


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.

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