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THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;

They marched all in silence, — they looked on the ground.

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"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

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.'

O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain,
I ween,

When the shroud was unclosed, and no
lady was seen;

When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,

'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,

I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:

¦ On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did

seem;

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the
ground,

And the desert revealed where his lady
was found:

From a rock of the ocean that beauty is
borne,-

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"And fast before her father's men

Three days we 've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would 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?"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;

"And empty that shroud and that coffin
did seem:

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

dream!"

Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of
Lorn!

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;

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For, sore dismayed, through storm and | But to that fane, most catholic and shade,

solemn,

His child he did discover;

Which God hath planned;

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

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beauty

The floor of nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive

duty

Your forins create!

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To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky.

There, as in solitude and shade I wander
Through the green aisles, or stretched
upon the sod,

Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder
The ways of God,

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a
book,

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly

Artist,

With which thou paintest Nature's
wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Of love to all!

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Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids

me treasure

Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope?

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Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope.

HORACE SMITH.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collec

tion!

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in
earth,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection,
A second birth.

Were I, O God! in churchless lands re-
maining,

Far from all voice of teachers or di-
vines,

My soul would find, in flowers of thy
ordaining,

Priests, sermons, shrines!

AND thou hast walked about how
strange a story!-

In Thebes's streets, three thousand
years ago!

When the Memnonium was in all its
glory,

And time had not begun to over-
throw

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass;

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. A torch, at the great temple's dedica

tion!

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Tell us,
lect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's
fame ?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either pyramid that bears his

name?

141

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden,

By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade;

Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?

Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my struggles

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles!

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by
Homer?

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,

Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled;

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em-
balmed,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been
suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young,

And the great deluge still had left it
green;

Or was it then so old that history's
pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

for doubtless thou canst recol- Still silent!- Incommunicative elf!
Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy
Vows!

But, prithee, tell us something of thy self,

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some
strange mutations;

The Roman Empire has begun and ended,
New worlds have risen, we have lost
old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been
humbled,

While not a fragment of thy flesh has
crumbled.

[1781 - 1849.]

A GHOST AT NOON.

THE day was dark, save when the beam
Of noon through darkness broke;
In gloom I sat, as in a dream,
Beneath my orchard oak;

Lo! splendor, like a spirit, came,
A shadow like a tree!

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy While there I sat, and named her name
head,

Who once sat there with me.

When the great Persian conqueror,
Cambyses,

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with
thundering tread,

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the pyramids with fear and

wonder,

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold! A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek
have rolled;

Have children climbed those knees, and
kissed that face?
What was thy name and station, age and

race?

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EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

sume,

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!

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