But when they mark'd the seeming show O give their hapless prince his due! Cried, "Fight!" to terror and despair, And cursed their caitiff fears! SIR WALTER SCOTT. SONG. THE spring-time is come in her beauty again, More sweet are her lips than the roses new-born, And holy the love-light that blinks in her e'e, Fair, fair is her cheek, like the flush of the morn, When kissing in glory the stream of the Dee. Oh! wavy and light are the ringlets of gold Of Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee. Oh! light is her step as the faery's, I ween, Her bosom is white as the foam of the sea, And a bonnier lassie ne'er tripp'd o'er the green Than Maggie, dear Maggie, the Pride of the Dee. Her brow's like the lily, so lovely and white; Is the voice of my Maggie, the Pride of the Dee. Her love's in my being, and deep in my heart, THE FUNERAL. THE clouds are up in the deep blue sky, And far away through the welkin blue, A rift in the cloud is riven And the streets that are trod by the hosts of God Flash far on the cope of heaven. One true heart beats on the earth no more, For the loveliest maid of the valley is laid I strike the harp of dolour and death, Fair are the hands that the thorns of earth In the days of her anguish tore, But the land was above of her heart's deep love, On the sand of the sinless shore ! But the sky was bright o'er the dear old earth, All was holy and white in the glory-light, To the rank red earth through the gate of death, FROM "SONG TO DAVID." GLORIOUS the sun in mid career; Glorious the Almighty's stretch'd-out arm; Glorious the enraptured main : Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the thunder's roar : Glorious the Catholic Amen; Glorious the martyr's gore. Glorious-more glorious is the crown ALEXANDER SMART. GLENCOE. [The tradition runs that the hereditary bard of the tribe took his seat on a rock which overhung the place of slaughter, and poured forth a long lament over his murdered brethren and his desolate home.-Lord Macaulay.] FIENDS below, and angels o'er me, Of the free-born and the brave, The hired dagger of the slave? On yon dim rock, dripping blood, His wail like troubled ocean groans- Never more, O righteous Lord, Wake the thunder of the glen ! Son of sires who fought with Fingal, Is wailing through the hall of Cloudland"MacDonald is no more!" Silent now the Vale of Weeping Falls on the tremendous gloom : In the Valley of the Dead: |