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To natures deepliest stained with sin:
THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.
Last of a high and noble name,
not shed a tear for thee, Thy fall was in the noon of fame,
As warrior's fall should be.
Awhile thy youthful errors lay,
Were early wept away.
Thy steps are missed by wood and wave,
Lost to the scenes thy youth loved best,
The torrents weep, the tempests rave
Above thy bed of rest.
The echoes of the chase are o'er,
The hunter comes no more.
No voice heard' amid thy halls,
Except the wild winds fitful sigh,
It cannot glad thine eye.
Thy garden's silent walks along ;
Thou canst not hear her song.
Cold is the heart that lovest thee now,
'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe ; Alas! what bids the hero's grow,
Must blight the bridal wreath. From blood the warrior's laurel
Midst blood and tears can only bloom; "Tis but a funeral garland hung
Above his mouldering tomb.
Thou wert not made thro' wintry years
until it hath no tears,
And leave a deathless name,
John Malcolm, Esq.
THE LAMENTATION OF MARY QUEEN OF
I sigh, and lament me in vain,
These walls can but echo my moan ;
To think of the days that are gone.
Through the grates of my prison I see
The birds as they wanton in air ;
My looks they are wild with despair..
Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay
With silence and solitude dwell; How comfortless passes the day,
How sad tolls the evening bell !
The owls from the battlements cry,
Hollow winds seem to murmur around, ' O Mary prepare thee to die!'
My blood it runs cold at the sound.
Unchanged by the rigours of fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes ; Though fortune has clouded my state,
This hope shall enlighten its close.
False woman ! in ages to come
Thy malice detested shall be;
Mrs Hunter. EXTRACT FROM THE BEDOUINS.
The firefly's lamp is on the air,