Blithe of heart, from week to week Drawn by what peculiar spell, Prized above all buds and bells Thou art not beyond the moon, : XIII. THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. I. SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald, You could not say in one short day Sing, mournfully, O, mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! II. Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle-horn. Sing, mournfully, O, mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! III. Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The Seven are laid, and in the shade But now, upstarting with affright, IV. 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, O, mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! V. Some close behind, some side by side, They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; They ran, and with a desperate leap Sing, mournfully, O, mournfully, VI. The stream that flows out of the lake, XIV. WHO fancied what a pretty sight 1804 Who loved the little Rock, and set Upon its head this coronet? Was it the humor of a child? Or rather of some gentle maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled I asked, 't was whispered: The device To each and all might well belong; It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, Where life is wise and innocent. 1803. XV. THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY, ART thou the bird whom Man loves best, The bird that comes about our doors |