"And I cannot, must not vary

From the path where patriots die.
Friends and kindred round me fall;
Death is in the battle's roar;
I must heed my country's call,
For it bleeds at every pore!
Ere to-morrow's sun is low,

Crimsoning the western wave,
Scotia's sons must strike a blow,

Life, and home, and hope to save !" Round his neck her arms were flung,

While the knightly warrior spoke; Fondly to his side she clung,

As the ivy to the oak.
Bitter tears were falling fast,

Falling from her orbs of blue;
Scarcely could she breathe the last
Sad and sorrowful adieu!
At her window, long she stood

Till she could not see him more;
Tears relieved her sorrowing mood,
And the parting scene was o'er !
Yes! 'twas o'er, and far away,
Spurring on his coal-black steed,
Young Glenalvon sought the fray,
Eager for the conqueror's meed!

High its front of mossy green. Upward, upward soars the mountain, Upward tow'rs its crest of blue; Rippling stream and spray-wreathed fountain Lent enchantment to the view. From its top the eaglet wings Far away its arrowy flight; O'er its cliffs the storm-cloud flings Mantle dark as robes of night. Beetling crag, and deep ravine, Torrent thundering on its way, Grove of tangled evergreen,

Cave where howls the beast of prey, Herbless knoll, and darksome glen,

Which the sun-rays never warm, Winding path, untrod by men,

Lend the scene a fearful charm. Down the cragged mountain's side, Cleaving deep its heart of stone, Leaps a river's pent up tide,

All its path with ruin strewn ! Like an avalanche it bounds,

Bounds along its channeled way; Loud its deep toned voice resounds, Thundering 'neath its arch of spray! Bright as orbs that lead the van,

When the star-march is begun,

Bars of steel the chasm span,
Flashing in the summer sun.
Bars of steel, through which the breeze
Murmurs oft its zephyr song,

Breathing gentlest harmonies,

Silvery sweet, yet full and strong; Bars of steel, through which the storm Wildly leaps, and wakes a strain

Louder than the dread alarm,

When the war-horse tears the plain ! Harp of Steel! thy mournful lay

Wake, O! wake to life again; As the soft winds o'er thee play, Breathe thy saddest strain !

III.

THE ANTHEM.

"Drowned-drowned."-HAMLET.

Brightly gleam the steel-clad stars,

Darting o'er the arch of even

Rays of light, like silver bars

That bolt the jasper gates of Heaven.

Floating in a sea of blue

Glides fair Luna's swan-winged barque, Like a Naiad's shell-canoe

Sailing o'er the waters dark.
O'er the steel harp, dancing, glancing,
Blithely fall her mellow rays,
As with stately step advancing,
Moves she 'mid the starry ways!

On the torrent's verge is standing
Figure, clad in flowing white;
Form, majestic and commanding,
Seems it in the starry light.
Loose, disheveled float her tresses,
Like a billowy sea of gold,
And each curl the breeze caresses,
Toying with its wavy fold.
Tearless are her snow-veiled eyes,

But there's madness in their glance,

As in gentle summer's skies

Hides the lightning's fire-tipped lance. Deep despair hath torn her heart, Hurled her reason from its throne;

Death hath bid the lovers part;

Hope to other climes hath flown!

On the blood-dyed field of strife,
Plunging 'mid the battle's roar,
Had Glenalvon staked his life-

Sword and poniard stained with gore.

'Mid the clash of arms he fell,

Fell beneath the Southron sword,

And they scarcely dared to tell

Mary of her murdered lord.

But they told her, and she heard,

Heard them mourn her lover's death, Motionless-without a word

Forcing back her gasping breath; Choking down her deep emotion, Struggling to withstand the blow, But in vain the storm-torn ocean Would not cease its restless flow. Reason left her, and she wandered Smiling, O! a maniac smile, Where the rippling stream meandered Down the forest's shadowy aisle.

Now, beside the Harp of Steel,

Listening to its silvery strain,

Banner-streaming floats her hair
Wildly on the rising gale;
Blinding is the lightning's glare,
Yet that young girl does not quail!
No! she quails not; for her eye

Rests upon a phantom form;
While she deems her lover nigh,
Heeds she not the driving storm.
Yet it comes with giant force,
Death, destruction in its blow,
Sweeping, in its whirlwind course,
Mary to the depths below!
Swift, as e'er the wild deer bounds,
Falls she 'mid the tempest's peal,

And poor Mary's anthem sounds

From that Highland Harp of Steel!

REASON AND FANCY.

AN ALLEGORY.

WE saw two children sporting in a garden. Around them were plants and shrubs, fruits and flowers, of the richest and rarest kind, intermingled as though Nature and Art had combined to make another Eden for their pleasure. They were boy and girl; the boy somewhat the senior, of graver mien, and one formed in fairest and worthiest mould, while the sober majesty that so evidently characterized him, told of thought deep and abiding-thought that would look beyond the mere externals of existence, and seek food in wisdom and true knowledge. The girl was, indeed, fair to look upon, but she was far more than that. Beauty, and Grace, and Love, had so gathered about her, you scarce saw any, yet knew them all.

She had plucked of the garden's wealth, and now, seated with her brother on a green moss-bank, twined the bright-hued flowers about his person; while her light touch, and joyous smile, and gay laugh shot an occasional gleam across his thoughtful features.

Then spoke the girl, " Brother, how changed you are! Why are you so still, now? See, I have brought the gayest flowers, and with them weaved this garland. Come, Brother, let me place it on your head; and then its beauty may banish thence that darkness on your face which chills me so! This will become you well; and there, in the very centre, see the pure Hyacinth, true emblem of a sister's love." She kissed him then, and the darkness did vanish, as he gave back that Sister's kiss, and turned to look on her lightsome form, and touched the golden curls that played about her face. But that darkness came again, as he replied, "Dear Sister, in truth, I love you well; in that, at least, I am not changed. Yet, Fancy, know you not that grave