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Outspoke the hardy Highland-wight:
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.

By this the storm grew loud apace; The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men; Their trampling sounded nearer.

O haste thee, haste! the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore:
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

Come back! come back! he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland-chief.
My daughter!-oh my daughter!

Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

ODE TO WINTER.

1800.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rushed into her sire's embrace;

(Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-covered isles)
More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of Vintage bowed before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar-star;
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side;
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale;
Round the hall where runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar-field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-covered shield.

O Sire of Storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland-drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity:
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;
To shuddering want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend;
And gently on the orphan-head
Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, oh King of Clouds!

The sailor on his airy shrouds;

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh winds of winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start ye, demons of the midnight-air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your
own?

Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath
May spare the victim, fallen low;
No bounds to human woe.
But man will ask no truce to death,

LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. |Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead;

For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head-
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve
Launch on that water by the witches' tower,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower,
For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted
hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life's unfinished road,
To feel the stepdame-buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom-and the hand
That smote its kindred heart might yet be
prone

To deeds of mercy. Who may understand
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee
alone.

In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,

Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore! Through the perils of chance and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain

Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:

To bear is to conquer our fate.

LINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower.

Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew
From each wandering sun- beam a lonely
embrace;

For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd
the place
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,
But patience shall never depart!

O'CONNOR'S CHILD,

OR THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

OH! once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt;
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires

Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, As, in the palace of her sires,

She bloomed a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal broche, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,

Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin's host
So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast?
Why wanders she a huntress wild,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell'd are her raven-locks;

On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks

She sings sweet madrigals.
Plac'd in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet:
For, lo! to love-lørn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light--a lovely form,

He comes and makes her glad:
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,

The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed,
More richly than in Aghrim's bower,
When bards high praised her beauty's power,
And kneeling pages offer'd up
The morat in a golden cup.

A hero's bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding:
And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call My love lies bleeding?
This purple flower my tears have nursed;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom:
I love it, for it was the first

That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!
This desert mansion is my choice!
And blest, though fatal, be the star
That led me to its wilds afar:
For here these pathless mountains free
Gave shelter to my love and me;
And every rock and every stone
Bare witness that he was my own.

O'Connor's child, I was the bud

Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
But woe to them that wrapt in blood
The tissue of my story!
Still as I clasp my burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o'er and o'er again,

The bloody feud-the fatal night,
When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,
They call'd my hero basely born,
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of pride.

Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara's psaltery;
Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cathal of the bloody hand:
Glory (they said) and power and honour
Were in the mansion of O'Connor;
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.

Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the pale,
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry?
And what was it to love and me

That barons by your standard rode,
Or beal-fires for your jubilee

Upon an hundred mountains glowed?
What though the lords of tower and dome,
From Shannon to the North-sea-foam,—
Thought ye your iron hands of pride
Could break the knot that love had tied?
No:-let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its huc, the flower its bloom;
But ties around this heart were spun
That could not, would not, be undone!

At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love-"Oh, come with me:
Our bark is on the lake, behold

Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans---
Come with thy belted forestere,
And I, beside the lake of swans,

Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer;
And build thy hut, and bring thee home
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb;
And berries from the wood provide,
And play my clarshech by thy side.
Then come, my love!"-How could I stay?
Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way,
And I pursued, by moonless skies,
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

And fast and far, before the star

Of day-spring rushed we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade!
Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage,

For man's neglect we loved it more.
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening-food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But, oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was doom'd to rend my hair:
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!

When all was hushed, at even-tide,

I heard the baying of their beagle:

Be hushed! my Connocht Moran cried, 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound;

Their bloody bands had track'd us out; Up listening starts our couchant houndAnd, hark! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare, spare him-Brazil-Desmond fierce! In vain no voice the adder charms; Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms: Another's sword has laid him low

Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow

Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron bands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial-turf they trod,
And I beheld-oh God! oh God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod!

Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas! my warrior's spirit brave, Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard

Lamenting soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom's grasp I lay I knew not, for my soul was black, And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 'Twas but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's power to sob; Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear.

But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire:
I woke, and felt upon my lips
A prophetess's fire.

Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,

I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, And ranged, as to the judgment-seat,

My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, And lighted up the midnight-skies. That standard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay; That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail.

And go! (I cried) the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappalled bore
The anguish of a sister's shriek;
Go! and return no more!
For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand

Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.

O stranger! by my country's loss!
And by my love! and by the cross!
I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that severed nature's yoke,
But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of heaven.

They would have cross'd themselves, all mute;

They would have pray'd to burst the spell; But, at the stamping of my foot,

Each hand down pow'rless fell!
And go to Athunree! (I cried)
High lift the banner of your pride!
But know that where its sheet unrolls
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain-fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know;
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead, as the green oblivious flood

That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood!
Away! away to Athunree!

Where, downward when the sun shall fall,
The raven's wing shall be your pall!
And not a vassal shall unlace
The vizor from your dying face!

A bolt that overhung our dome,

Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, Pealed in the blood-red heaven. Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw : But now, behold! like cataracts,

Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumed partizans ; Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom:

A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, And all again was gloom!

Stranger! I fled the home of grief, At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; I found the helmet of my chief,

His bow still hanging on our wall, And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould. No! for I am a hero's child, I'll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake, The flower of love lies bleeding.

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality;
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly, like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and strife at BURNS's name,
Exorcis'd by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame
And high delicious revelry.

And love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstasies
With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,—
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distill'd.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy stròng,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love-
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught!-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse
Entranced, and showed him all the forms
Of fairy-light and wizard-gloom,
(That only gifted poet views)
The genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shade from glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom BURNS's song inspires?
Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier, resting on his arms,
In BURNS's carol sweet recals
The scenes that blest him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life;
"Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume;
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall;
Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

Such was the soldier-BURNS, forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live,
The friend I mourned-the brave, the good—
Edward that died at Waterloo!

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong;
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison'd drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust;
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fillst the sky
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway-station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

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