On the Massacre of Glençoç.

The Macdonalds were the most tardy of the Scottish clans in tendering submission to William III. Advantage was taken of this by their enemies. and William was influenced to grant an order for the destruction of the Macdonald Clan. The execution of this order was entrusted to Captain Campbell of Glenlyon. He entered Glencoe as a friend; was hospitably entertained by the Macdonalds for fifteen days; and then, in the night-without any warning- the Macdonalds off their guard,- he and his soldiers cruelly butchered the greater number of the men. set fire to their houses, and left the women and children to perish of cold and hunger. February, 1692.

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OH! 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, harpest 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 hath 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 mountains grey,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day

Could screen from treacherous cruelty.

"Their flags were 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 heart which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
And 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 whistles 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 grey-hair'd master's misery.

Were each
grey hair a minstrel-string,
Each chord should imprecations fling,
Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
'Revenge for blood and treachery !'”

Helvellyn.

In 1805, Mr. Charles Gough of Manchester, while wandering over Helvellyn, a mountain in Cumberland, lost his way and perished. A little terrier dog, which had accompanied him, remained by his corpse and protected it for three months.

CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty
Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right Striden-edge* round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Striden-edge and Catchedicam are parts of the mountain Helvellyn.

Dark-green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in

decay;

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended; For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, 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?

And oh, was it meet that—no requiem read o'er

him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore

him,

And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him

Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has

yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted 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-arched 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, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge 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 plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.