[E. MOORE.]

HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb!

"Come, Lucy," it cries, " come away! The grave of my Collin has room,

To rest thee beside his cold clay."
I come, my dear Shepherd, I come ;-
Ye friends and companions adieu,
I haste to my Collin's dark home,
To die on his bosom so true."

All mournful the midnight bell rung,
When Lucy, sad Lucy arose ;
And forth to the green-turf she sprung,
Where Collin's pale ashes repose.
All wet with the night's chilling dew,
Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground,
While stormy winds over her blew,

And night-ravens croak'd all around.

"How long, my lov'd Collin," she cried, 1 "How long must thy Lucy complain ? How long shall the grave my love hide? How long ere it join us again?

For thee thy fond Shepherdess liv'd,
With thee o'er the world would she fly,
For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd,
For thee would she lie down and die.

"Alas! what avails it how dear
Thy Lucy was once to her swain !
Her face like the lily so fair,

And eyes that gave light to the plain!
The shepherd that left her is gone,

That face and those eyes charm no more,

And Lucy forgot and alone,

To death shall her Collin deplore."

While thus she lay sunk in despair,

And mourn'd to the echoes around,

Inflam'd all at once grew the air,

And thunder shook dreadful the ground:

"I hear the kind call and obey,

Oh, Collin, receive me," she cried! Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, She hung on his tomb-stone and died.

[CAMPBELL.]

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound

Cries," Boatman do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ?" "Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together;

For if he find us in the glen,

My blood will stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover."

Out spoke 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 heav'n each face
Grew dark, as they were speaking.

"Oh! 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 gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd, amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore :-
His wrath was chang❜d to wailing.

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back, come back," he cried in grief,

"Across this raging water,

And I'll forgive your Highland chief;
My daughter, oh! my daughter!"

"Twas vain; the loud wave lash'd the shore, Return or help preventing,

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

TO A FEMALE CUPBEARER.

[From the Arabic.]

[CARLYLE.]

COME, Leila, fill the goblet up,

Reach round the rosy wine, Think not that we will take the cup From any hand but thine.

A draught like this 'twere vain to seek,
No grape can such supply,

It steals its tint from Leila's cheek,

Its brightness from her eye.