"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which 1 knock in vain;
The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.
"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,
That's now denied to me.'
The ranger on his couch loy warm,
And heard him plead in vain;
But oft, amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again:
For lo, when through the vapours dank,
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

""

A corpse amid the alders rank,
The Palmer weltered there.

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when Niedpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick forest. As

the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an instanes similar to this traditional tale in count Hamilton's Fleur d'Epine.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,

Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.
By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,

She heard her lover's riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenned, She knew, and waved to greet him; And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away.
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk: Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE VIOLET. THE violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew drop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watʼry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye, Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

TO A LADY,

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger

Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, Is whistling the forest lullaby:

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast,

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The spectre with his bloody hand,*
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!
"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t
"Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.

+ Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
"O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach,* first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.

The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre;

To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguished and clear.
Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renewed the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;

And the standard of Fion flashed fierce from on high,

Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.

In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson,

It seemed that the harp of green Erin once more Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, should'st thou burn?

They were days of delusion, and cannot return. But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by,

And listed my lay, while she turned from mine eye? Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted to dew? Oh! would it had been so!-O! would that her eye Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,

And her voice, that was moulded to melody's
thrill,
Had been but a zephyr that sighed and was still!
Oh! would it had been so!-not then his poor
heart

Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding

on,

"Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,

And restore me the dream of my spring tide again!"

ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.
"O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and wo
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"

"No, not to these, for they have rest,—
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treacherous cruelty.
"Their flag was furled, and mute their
The very household dogs were dum,
Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,

To tend her kindly housewifery.
"The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

"Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone

The friendly hearth which warmed that hand,
At midnight armed it with the brand,
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

"Then woman's shriek was heard in vain,
Nor infancy's unpitied plain,
More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that choaked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than southron clemency.

Their gray-haired master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 'Revenge for blood and treachery

1339

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Arcadia's winter-fettered soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, By gray-haired patriarch, the tales of old, The infant group that hushed their sports the while, And the dear maid who listened with a smile. The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant passion shows his wo and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar

whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferred that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a daughter's love!

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,
HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.
FROM THE GAELIC.

THE original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great earl of the North, The lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth;

Arcadia, or Nova Scotia.