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HELLVELLYN.

And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours-

See, the east grows wan-
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.
At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,

The legend heard him say:
But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb,

Ere closed that bloody day.
He sleeps far from his highland heath-,
But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale
On piquel-post, when ebbs the night,
And waning watch-fires grow less bright,

And dawn is glimmering pale.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I CLIMB'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty

and wide;
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yell-

ing,
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 mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer

had died.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so ost has decoy'd me,

heather, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in roam,

decay, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.

Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild,

clay. speaking

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, The language alternate of rapture and wo:

For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 0! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are

The much-loved remains of her master defended, breaking,

And chased the hill fox and the raven away. The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

How long didst thou think that his silence was Each joy thou couldst double, and when there camc slumber? sorrow,

When the wind waved his garment, how oft Or pale disappointment, to darken my way,

didst thou start? What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- How many long days and long weeks didst thou morrow,

number, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? But when friends drop around us in life's weary And, o! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er waning,

him, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, suage ;

And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remain- him, ing,

Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart? The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewail- yielded, ing,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, hall; And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: As vain those enchantments, o queen of wild Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches numbers,

are gleaming; To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beamAnd the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers. Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, more,

Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

ing;

730

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through
To lay down thy, head like the meek mountain channel,
Jamb:

Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, stature,

Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake Enough, now thy story in annals of glory, lying,

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,

Spain ; With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou

leave me, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

I never will part with my Willie again.

HUNTING SONG.

WANDERING WILLIE.

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me,

And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,

And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“ Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune,

Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting,

Now I hae gotten my Willic again.

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were

wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was

sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a'blaw on me.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The inist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
“ Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,

Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean

faem.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they

did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,

Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may

glisten; For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween

lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro'

the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers,

And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE

AUTUMN OF 1804.

Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pon

der'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the

treeNow I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wanderd,

Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.

The forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer

Is whistling the forest lullaby:

“ 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 !"

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ; 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!

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 popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the stvle of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

“ 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 ilung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skilld to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t
“ 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.

It was Dunois, the young and brave,

Was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orison

Before Saint Mary's shrine : “And grant, immorta) queen of heaven,"

Was still the soldier's prayer, “ That I may prove the bravest koight,

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."

“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, first who rolled his car, Through the deep ranks of Roman war, To him, of veteran memory dear, Who victor died on Aboukir.

They owed the conquest to his arm,

And then his liege lord said, “ The heart that has for honour beat,

By bliss mast be repaid ;--
My daughter Isabel and thou

Shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave,

She fairest of the fair.”

“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 ! 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

And then they bound the holy knot

Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,

If hearts and hands combine :
And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there, Cried, “ Honour'd be the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair !"

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

† Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody deseals.

* The Galgacus of Tacitus.

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 :

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“My arm it is my country's right,

Come, from Newbattle's* ancient spires, My heart is in my truelove's bower;

Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, Gayly for love and fame to fight

And match the mettle of your sires, Befits the gallant Troubadour.”

Carle, now the king's come ! And while he march'd with helm on head “ You're welcome hame, my Montague ! And harp in hand, the descant rung,

Bring in your hand the young. Buccleugh ; As faithful to his favourite maid,

I'm missing some that I may rue, The minstrel burden still he sung:

Carle, now the king's come! “My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower;

“ Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, Resolved for love and fame to fight,

You've graced my causeway mony a day; I come, a gallant Troubadour.”

I'll weep the cause if you should stay, E’en when the battle-roar was deep,

Carle, now the king's come! With dauntless heart he hew'd his way “ Come, premier duke, and carry doun, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, Frae yonder craigs his ancient croun; And still was heard his warrior-lay :

It's had a lang sleep and a soun'“My life it is my country's right,

But, Carle, now the king's come!
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,

“Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud ;

Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood, -
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,

Carle, now the king's come!
But still, reclining on his shield,

“Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath ; Expiring sung th’exulting stave :

Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; "My life it is my country's right,

Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath;
My heart is in my lady's bower;

Carle, now the king's come!
For love and fame to fall in fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”

“ Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids;
Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades;
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ;

Carle, now the king's come!
CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME."

“Come, stately Niddriel auld and true, BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING.

Girt with the sword that Minden knew; The news has flown frae mouth to mouth;

We have ower few such lairds as youThe north for ance has bang’d the south;

Carle, now the king's come! The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

“ King Arthur's grown a common crier,
Carle, now the king's come.

He's heard in Fife and far Cantire,-
CHORUS.

* Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire !'
Carle, now the king's come!

Carle, now the king's come!
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing, “ Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass
Carle, now the king's come !

Between Tantallon and the Bass!'-
Auld England held him lang and fast;

Calton, ** get on your keeking-glass, And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;

Carle, now the king's come !"
But Scotland's turn has come at last

The carline stopp'd ; and sure I am,
Carle, now the king's come!

For very glee had ta'en a dwam,
Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray,

But Oman help'd her to a dram.Thought never to have seen the day ;

Cogie, now the king's come!
He's been a weary time away

Cogie, now the king's come!
But, Carle, now the king's come!

Cogie, now the king's come!
She's skirling frae the Castle Hill,

I'se be four and ye's be toom,
The carline's voice is grown sae shrill,

Cogie, now the king's come !
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,
Carle, now the king's come!

* Seat of the Marquis of Lothian.

+ Uncle to the Duke of Buccleugh. “Up, bairns,” she cries, “ baith great and sma',

Hamilton.

The castle. And busk ye for the weapon shaw !

|| Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble-looking old man, and Sland by me and we'll bang them a'!

a fine specimen of an ancient baron. Carle, now the king's come!

9 There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat.

** The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the * Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Scot- Frith of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, ansland, in August, 1822.

iously looking for the royal squadron.

THE END.

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