"O 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, harp'st 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 has 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 mountain grey,
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

"Their flag was 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 hearth which warm'd that hand,

At midnight arm'd it with the brand, That 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 whistled shrill,
The snows that night that cloked 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

LINES,

ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, ESQ. OF STAFFA.

[1814.]

STAFFA, sprung from high Macdonald,
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald!
Staffa king of all kind fellows!
Well befall thy hills and valleys,
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows—
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,
Echoing the Atlantic thunder;
Mountains which the grey mist covers,
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers,
Pausing while his pinions quiver,
Stretch'd to quit our land for ever!
Each kind influence reign above thee!
Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Staffa
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa !

We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of Saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note

Fall light as summer dew, While through the moonless air they float, Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With Princes at Saint Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,
The circle round her drew,
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint Cloud.
Few happy hours poor mortals pass,
Then give those hours their due,
And rank among the foremost class
Our evenings at Saint Cloud.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

[1815.]

I.

NIGHT and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo ;

Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;
Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouack

Where the soldier lay,

Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again,

Though death should come with day.

II.

'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend, have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower

Gleam on the gifted ken;

course,

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse;

But there are sounds in Allan's ear,
Patrol nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have passs'd,

When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance, Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,

When Scotland's James his march prepared

For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand,

VI.

Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Sons of the spear!
You feel us near

In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's eye
Our forms you spy,

And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight

Ere falls the night,

Just when to weal or woe
Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing-each startled
sprite

Our choir of death shall know.
VII.

Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
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 wanYield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame Shall the welkin's thunders shame Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

VIII.

At morn, grey 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 dayHe sleeps far from his Highland heath,But often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the tale, On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale.