His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, For, while the dagger gleamed on high, A Farewell. HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; And herd-boy's evening pipe and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone. That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now 'tis silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee well! STRANGER! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known, Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high, Listing where from the cliffs the torrents thrown Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, And with the sounding lake, and with the moaning sky. Yes! 'twas sublime, but sad.-The loneliness Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. Then hast thou wished some woodman's cottage nigh, Something that showed of life, though low and mean; Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke to spy, Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would have been, Or children whooping wild beneath the willows green. Such are the scenes, where savage grandeur wakes Such feelings rouse them by dim Rannoch's lakes, That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears Coriskin roar. |