A garland of seven lilies wrought! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, Fresh blows the wind, a western wind Across the wave, a Rover brave Right onward to the Scottish strand The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right-- Of your fair household, Father Knight, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, "Your father loves to roam Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The Solitude of Binnorie. Some close behind, some side by side, 66 A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The Solitude of Binnorie. The stream that flows out of the lake, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, "-Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.” By their floating mill, Which lies dead and still, Behold yon prisoners three! The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames The platform is small, but there's room for them all; And they're dancing merrily. From the shore come the notes To their mill where it floats, To their house and their mill tethered fast; To the small wooden isle where, there work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past. In sight of the spires, All alive with the fires Of the sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, Man and maidens wheel, They themselves make the reel, And their music's a prey which they seize; They dance not for me, Yet mine is their glee! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth The showers of the Spring Rouse the birds, and they sing; If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right! THE KITTEN, AND THE FALLING LEAVES. THAT way look, my infant, lo! What a pretty baby show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves-one-two-and three From the lofty elder tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair In this wavering parachute. -But the Kitten how she starts, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now-now one Now they stop; and there are none-- In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, "Tis a pretty baby-treat; 2 A Of the countless living things, All have laid their mirth aside. Made such wanton spoil and rout, Hung with head towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest harlequin! Prettiest tumbler ever seen! Light of heart, and light of limb, What is now become of him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, Yet, whate'er enjoyments dweil Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature: That your transports are not mine, Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! Will walk through life in such a way I would fare like that or this, Even from things by sorrow wrought, To gambol with life's falling leaf. A FRAGMENT. BETWEEN two sister moorland rills And in this smooth and open dell A thing no storm can e'er destroy, In clouds above the lark is heard, No beast, no bird hath here his home |