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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,'
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 plough'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung? Her Norsemen, train'd to spoil and blood, Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, All, by your harpings doom'd to die On bloody Largs and Loncarty.2

«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,3 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,
Bristles 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!»

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

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

3 The Galgacus of Tacitus.

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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.

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This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread, In female grace the willow droops her head; Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust, Till waked to join the chorus of the just,Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,

Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here SEWARD lies! Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,Go seek her genius in her living lay.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.

ONCE again, but how changed since my wanderings began

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Cambrassil resound to the roar
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn;
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown:
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre:
To me it was not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.
Yet why at remembrance, foud heart, shouldst thou burn?
They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

But was she too a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sun-beam or melted to dew?
Oh! would it had been so! Oh! would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still!

Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
«Take the fame and the riches ye brought in
your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again!»>

1 In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson.

ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.

«O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow Thy wayward notes of wail and woe Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody? Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, Or to the dun deer glancing by, Or to the eagle that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?»

«No, not to these, for they have rest,— The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, The stag his lair, the erne her nest,

Abode of lone security;

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

«Their flag was furl'd, and mute their drum,
The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,

To tend her kindly housewifery.

<< The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with the brand
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

<< Then woman's shriek was heard in vain,
Nor infancy's unpitied plain,
More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that choked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than southron clemency.

« Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone

Their gray-hair'd master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 'Revenge for blood and treachery!'»

PROLOGUE

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND.

"T IS sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; 'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the ear;

But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Link'd as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,

He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes,
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving, and the water's swell:
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,

And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THE original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;
To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should
boil:

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,'
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail.

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale!
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail;
Be prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know,
Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe:
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May he hoist all his canvas from streamer to deck,
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him back—
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

IMITATION

OF THE PRECEDING SONG.

So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people depart.
Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, are heard
Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the bard;
Or its strings are but waked by the stern winter gale,
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

From the far southland border a minstrel came forth,
And he waited the hour that some bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame?
No, son of Fitzgerald! in accents of woe,
The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose
The glow of the genius they could not oppose;
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,
Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail?

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell,—
In the spring-time of youth and of promise they fell!
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail.

And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief, For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief,

Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast at parting with a friend.

Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THIS song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glories of the chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!-
'T was valiant Lachlan gave the word;
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:

He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And launch'd them on the main.

1

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil;

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound
Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

Shall shake their inmost cell.
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays;
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!

The startled naiads from the shade
With broken arms withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint-Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,

When waked, to music of our own,
The echoes of Saint-Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer-dew,
While through the moonless air they float,
Prolong'd from fair Saint-Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet With princes at Saint-Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,
The circle round her drew,
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint-Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint-Cloud. PARIS, Sept. 5, 1815.

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

THE original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

SAINT-CLOUD.

SOFT spread the southern summer night
Her veil of darksome blue;
Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint-Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd, Like breath of lover true, Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint-Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,
That garrison Saint-Cloud.

i. e. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

Ir was Dunois, the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons

Before Saint Mary's shrine:

«And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,» Was still the soldier's prayer,

« That I may prove the bravest knight, And love the fairest fair.»>

His oath of honour on the shrine
He graved it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land
The banner of his lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow,

His war-cry fill'd the air,

« Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair.»>

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THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good-morrow: My arm it is my country's right,

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My heart is in my true love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.>>

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel burden still he sung:
« My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour.>>

E'en when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;
My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exulting stave: «My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»>

FROM THE FRENCH. Ir chanced that Cupid on a season, By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason Or Folly should partake his bed. What does he then?-Upon my life, 'T was bad example for a deityHe takes me Reason for his wife, And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

Though thus he dealt in petty treason,

He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF
SCOTLAND.

O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,
PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit,
To take for his country the safety of shame;
O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim,
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd!
Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GEEME;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

SONG,

ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF

BUCCLEUCH,

At a great Foot-ball Match on Carterhaugh.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

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