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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.

"By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the mighty strain to tell!
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"-
The wind is hushed, and still the lake-

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years"When targets clashed, and bugles rung, And blades round warriors' heads were flung, The foremost of the band were we, And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!"


Mr wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,

Yet all was but a dream:

For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,
But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er
My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned fear,
By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,
Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambushed Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,

And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:

I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides,
The flame its glory hurls about,
The its lustre hides;
Such gem 1 fondly deemed was mine,
And glowed a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dies so bright and vain,

No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall tangle me again:

The Galgacus of Tacitus.

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own;
Nor shall wild passion trouble it,—
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,-
"Thy loving labours lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,
To be so strangely erost;

The widowed turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I—
I'll rather dwell alone."



At the Burial Place of the family of Miss Seward.
AMIn these aisles, where once his precepts showed
The heavenward path-way which in life he trod,
This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread,

In female grace the willow droops her head;
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung;
What poet's voice is smothered here in dust,
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,-
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
Honoured, beloved, and mourned, here Seward

Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship

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It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,

High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown;

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.

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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


"Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your And restore me the dream of my spring tide again!"


"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 drum,
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!

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.

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

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 !" "


"TIS sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh,
Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear
Of distant music, dying on the ear;
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Linked as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes,
Or till Arcadia's winter-fettered soil,
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

Of 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!


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 1718. year

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

Arcadia, or Nova Scotia.

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On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,
And farewell to Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!
Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale!
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his

Be prolonged as regret that his vassals must know,
Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their wo:
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!
Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May he hoist all his canvass from streamer to deck,
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him back-
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
Shall welcome Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!

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And he waited the hour that some bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,
To lament for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail.
And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame?
No, son of Fitzgerald! in accents of wo,


The thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail.
In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
Fate deadened thine ear and imprisoned thy tongue;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose
The glow of the genius they could not oppose;
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,
Might match with Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail?
Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell-
In the spring-time of youth and of promise they

Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the chief of Kintail.
And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief,
For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief,
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail,
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast at parting with a friend.


This song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glories of the chieftaian. The translator has endea voured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

A WEARY month has wandered o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, Love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!--
'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word:
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:

He called his kindred bands on board,
And lanched them on the main.
Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil:

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Wo to the hills that shall rebound
Our bannered bagpipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round,

Shall shake their inmost cell.

Wo to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays;
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!


SOFT spread the southern Summer night
Her veil of darkness blue;
Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of saint Cloud.
The evening breezes gently sighed,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew
Good night to Hulan and Husar,
That garrison saint Cloud.
The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken arms withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of saint Cloud.
We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer-dew,
While through the moonless air they float,
Prolonged from fair saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet
With princes at saint Cloud.

* i. c. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillisa.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,
The circle round her drew,
Than ours, when gathered round to hear
Our songstress at saint Cloud.
Few happy hours poor mortals pass,—
Then give those hours their due,
And rank among the foremost class
Our evenings at saint Cloud.
Paris, Sept. 5, 1815.



THE original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

It was Dunois, the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons

Before saint Mary's shrine:
"And grant, immortal queen of heaven,"
Was still the soldier's prayer,
"That I may prove the bravest knight,
And love the fairest fair."

His oath of honour on the shrine
He graved it with his sword,
And followed to the holy land
The banner of his lord;

Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry filled the air,

"Be honoured aye the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair."

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege-lord said,

"The heart that has for honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid,-

My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair,

For thou art bravest of the brave,
She fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot

Before saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine:
And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there,
Cried, "Honoured be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair!"

THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good-morrow: "My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true love's bower; Gayly for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he marched with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,

As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burthen still he sung:

"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour."
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way
Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;
"My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exulting stave: "My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

FROM THE FRENCH. IT chanced that Cupid on a season, By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason Or Folly should partake his bed. What does he then?-upon my life, 'Twas bad example for a deityHe takes me Reason for his wife, And Folly for his hours of gayety. Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was Lorn of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.



O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the


When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in


And, beholding broad Europe bowed down by her foemen,

PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit,

To take for his country the safety of shame; O then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,

But the blith harvest-home shall remember his claim,

And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sad

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And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.
Then up with the banner, &c.

And when it is over, we'll drink a blith measure
To each laird and each lady that witnessed our

The storms he endured in our Britain's December, There are worse things in life than a tumble os
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Nor forget his gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his son;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,
By his long reign of virtue, reinember his claim!
With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his

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Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.
When the southern invader spread waste and dis-

At the glance of her crescents he paused and

For around them were marshalled the pride of the

The flowers of the forest, the bands of BUCCLEUGH.
Then up with the banner, &c.

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen

But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should

scorn her,

A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

Then up with the banner, &c.

We forget each contention of civil dissention,
And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS,
and CAR;

And ELLIOT and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.
Then up with the banner, &c.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,


And to every blith heart that took part in our plea


To the lads that have lost and the lads that have


Then up with the banner, &c.

May the forest still flourish, both borough and landward,

From the hall of the peer to the herd's inglenook;

And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUGH and his standard,

For the king and the country, the clan and the duke!

Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her She has blazed over Fatrick eight ages and more, In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before



THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth,
The north for anes has bang'd the south;
The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

Carle, now the king's come.


Carle, now the king's come!
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,

Carle, now the king's come!
Auld England held him lang and fast;
But Scotland's turn has come at last—
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;

Carle, now the king's come!
Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray
Thought never to have seen the day;
He's been a weary time away-

But, Carle, now the king's come!
She's skirling frae the Castle Hill
The carline's voice is grown sae shrill
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,

Carle, now the king's come!
And busk ye for the weapon shaw!—
"Up, bairns," she cries, "baith great and sma’
Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!

Carle, now the king's come!

Come, from Newbattle'st ancient spires,
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires,
And match the mettle of your sires,

Carle, now the king's come!
"You're welcome hame, my Montague!
Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh;~
I'm missing some that I may rue,

Carle, now the king's come!
"Come Haddington, the kind and gay,
I'll weep the cause if you should stay,
You've grae'd my causeway mony a day;

Carle, now the king's come!

land, in August, 1822.-Am. Pub.

*Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Sece
+Seat of the marquis of Lothian,
Uncle to the duke of Buccleugh.

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