HELLVELLYN.

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dimlighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,

When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff hugo

in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the grey piover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

fended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicama.

--0

THE MAID OF TORO.

LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,

All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood.

"O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;

Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's

cry,

Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!'

How often the kindest and warmest prove

rovers,

And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the

sea.

Till, at times-could I help it?-I pined and I ponder'd,

If love could change notes like the bird on the tree

Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd,

Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to

me.

Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,

Hardships and danger despising for fame, Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame!

Enough now thy story in annals of glory

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain;

No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me,

I never will part with my Willie again.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek were flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear,
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick'd his car,
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd,
She knew, and waved to greet him;
And o'er the battlement did bend,
As on the wing to meet him.

He came--he pass'd-an heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan,
Which told her heart was broken.

—0—

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

1806.

THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence the lady fell into a consumption; and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle,

died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's "Fleur d'Epinc."

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;

And love, in life's extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.

Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,

Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,
To watch her love's returning.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804.

THE forest of Glenmore is drear.

It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm, But the troubled lake reflects not her form, For the waves roll whitening to the land, And dash against the shelvy strand. There is a voice among the trees,

That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,1
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?

1 The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhanidearg, or Red-hand.

Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings doom'd to dic
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.'

"Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

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 enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach," first who roll'd 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 hush'd, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Eristles my hair, my sinews quake,

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

TO A LADY.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE VIOLET.

THE violet in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

1 Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

2 The Galgacus of Tacitus.

Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay.

Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size :
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE RESOLVE.

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM-1809

My 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 tear,
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 ambush'd 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 gem its lustre hides;
Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,
And glow'd a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

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

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

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 labour's lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,
To be so strangely crost:

The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

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

AIR-The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan.

THE Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter

sionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARE, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Ryinny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil,
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.