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Now shall the land of the spiritis see,
Now shall it ken quhat ane womyn may be !
Mony long eir, in sorrow and pain,
Mony lang eir thro' the worild we haif gane,
Comyshonit to watch fayir womynkinde,
For it's they quha nurice the immortyl minde,
We haif watchit their stepis as the dawnyng shone,
And deip in the greinwudde walkis alone,
By lilye bouir, and silken bedde,
The viewless teiris haif ouir them shedde;
Haif soothit their ardent myndis to sleep,
Or left the cuche of luife to weip.
We haif sein! we have sein !-but the tyme mene

come, And the angelis will blush at the day of doom!

Oh, wald the fayrest of mortyl kynde
Aye keipe thilke holye troths in mynde
That kyndred spiritis ilk motion see,
Quha watch their wayis with anxious e'e,
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!
Oh, sweit to hevin the maydenis prayer,
And the siche that hevis ane bosom se fayre !
And deir to hevin the wordis of truthe,
And the praise of vertu fra beautyis muthe!
And deire to the viewless formis of ayre,
The mynde that kythis as the body fayre

From The Queen's Wake.

A STERN FATHER'S LATE REPENT.

ANCE.

That morning found rough Tushilaw

In all the father's guise appear; An end of all his hopes he saw

Shrouded in Mary's gilded bier.

No eye could trace without concern

The suffering warrior's troubled lookThe throbs that heav'd his bosom stern

No ear could bear, no heart could brook.

"Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame!

My Mary's prayers and accents mild Might well have render'd vengeance lame

This hand could ne'er have slain my child.

“But thou, in frenzied fatal hour,

Reft the sweet life thou gav'st away, And crush'd to earth the fairest flower

That ever breathed the breeze of day.

My all is lost, my hope is fled,

The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me ; Unblest, unhonour'd, my gray head

My child-would I had died for thee !"

The bells toll o'er a new-made grave;

The lengthen'd funeral train is seen
Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave,
And dark’ning Dryhope holms so green.

From The Queen's Wake.

THE HARP OF TEVIOT.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN LEYDEN.

Why weeps the poplar o'er the stream ?

Why wails the chilly winter gale ? Why starts the peasant from his dream

Adown the links of Teviotdale ?

What strain was that so wild, so sweet,

A hymn of heaven that strain must be,
To theme so thrilling, wo so sweet,

So soft the midnight melody!
It flows not from yon streamer pale,

Nor from the window'd choirs of bliss ;
Ye maidens fair of Teviotdale,

What wild, what wondrous song is this? A thoughtful shepherd, fair and young,

Upraised his head to list the strain ; And aye it rung, and aye

it

sung; But every note was fraught with pain.

Full well the fairy sound he knew;

It waver'd from the poplar pale, Where parting genius weeping threw

The magic Harp of Teviotdale.

So sweetly down the dale it rung,

The breeze of midnight died away, The falcon o’er the poplar þung,

The fieldfare, and the merlin gray.

The wakeful cock forgot to crow,

The snow-birds flocked around the tree, And ravish’d, sunk in trance of woe,

Thrilled by the melting melody.

It rang so low, it rang so long,

Few were the notes the youth could hear, But aye the burden of the song

Was, “ Soundly sleeps my Minstrel dear.”

“The gray moss o'er my strings shall spread,

My notes must die adown the vale, Since lowly lies the Minstrel's head

That tuned the Harp of Teviotdale.

" LEYDEN is fallen, and genius weeps !

Leyden to me, to nature true ;
Sound, sound the bard of Teviot sleeps!

-Sweet Minstrel of the vale, adieu.

“His lonely grave may balm entwine

With bandalets so beauteously ; Weep o'er his dust, the purple vine,

And wave the wild banana tree.

“ Ye spirits of that vernal clime,

Around his grave your vigils keep, And wake the choral hymn sublime,

To soothe my Leyden's slumbers deep ;

“For, ah! that soul of fire is fled,

To dream o'er fields of wondrous lore; And consecrate my rural reed,

A Harp of Heaven for evermore.

" Long may the Harp of Teviotdale

Forgotten on the poplar hang, Save when the spirits of the vale

At midnight twang my runic string."

97

Slow died its wailing sound away ;

The shepherd sought the poplar pale, And reached his skilless hand to play

The heavenly Harp of Teviotdale.

A spirit clove the welkin gray,

Swift as the motion of the mind; The sacred symbol snatch'd away,

And mounted on the murmuring wind.

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