And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy foemen's dread, thy people's aid,
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem suy ?—
For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line,
E'en in this prison-house of thine,
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd pine!
What groans shall yonder valleys fill !
What shricks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.-
woe for Alpine's honour'd pine!
"Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!— The captive thrush may brook the cage, The prison'd eagle dies for rage.
Brabe spirit, do not scorn my strain !
And, when its notes awake again,
Eben she, so long beloved in bain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd pine."-
LLEN, the while, with bursting heart, Remain'd in lordly bower apart, Where play'd, with many-colour'd gleams, Through storied pane the rising beams. In vain on gilded roof they fall, And lighten'd up a tapestried wall, And for her use a menial train A rich collation spread in vain. The banquet proud, the chamber gay, Scarce drew one curious glance astray; Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say, With better omen dawn'd the day In that lone isle, where waved on high The dun deer's hide for canopy; Where oft her noble father shared The simple meal her care prepared
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.-
Those who such simple joys have known,
Are taught to prize them when they're gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woful hour!
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.
Imprisoned Huntzman.
"My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle grey-bound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green
With bended bow and blood-hound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my bespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Habe not a hall of joy for me.
'No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Bribe the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew,
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee,—
That life is lost to lobe and me!"
HE heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The list'ner had not turn'd her head,
It trickled still the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
welcom brave Fitz-James!" she
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt "—" O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's King thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lay his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime."-
With beating heart, and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half staid,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
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