"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, The boat has left a stormy land, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 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 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! And render back thy being's heavy load. That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may 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: On India's citron-covered isles : More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne But howling Winter fled afar, Howls his war-song to the gale; 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, Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Spells to touch thy stony heart? 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, Oh winds of winter! list ye there 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 the 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, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 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 |