THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. They lighted a taper at dead of night, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright— And the Lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom! Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray For nightmare rides on my strangled sleep : For Wallace of Elderslie! Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, That a trumpet of death on an English tower Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear Was true to that knight forlorn, And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer At the blast of the hunter's horn; When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field Yet bleeding and bound, tho' the Wallace wight The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than William of Elderslie ! But the day of his glory shall never depart; His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed; From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Tho' the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalmed! Campbell. THE DYING FATHER TO HIS DAUGHTER. To me, my sweet Kathleen, the Benshee has cried, And I die-ere to-morrow I die,→→→ This rose thou hast gathered, and laid by my side, My days they are gone, like a tale that is told, For never to father, when feeble and old, Thou hast walked by my side, and my board thou hast spread, For my chair the warm corner hast found; And told my dull ear what the visitor said, When I saw that the laughter went round. Thou hast succoured me still, and my meaning, expressed Thou hast pillowed my head ere I laid it to rest, O Kathleen, my love! thou couldst choose the good part, And more than thy duty hast done; Go now to thy Dermot, be clasped to his heart, He merits the love he has won. Be duteous and tender to him, as to me; Look up to the mercy-seat then; }'' And passing this shadow of death, which I see, : Professor Smyth. V A RUINED FEMALE.: > Take one example, one of female wo. In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light Of heart, so good, and young, that scarce me The eye could credit, but would doubt, as she From morning's dew, if it reality Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw, But short her bloom-her happiness was short. His heaven; her frown his wo, his night, his death. For he a chosen villain was at heart, And capable of deeds that durst not seek Soon her father saw her shame ; |