Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt-

Of them that stood encircling his despair

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

they were.

For now to mourn their judge and child arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between
'Twas sung how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touched by the music and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud-
While woman's softer soul in wo dissolved aloud.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name;
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came,
Convulsive, ague-like, across the shuddering frame !

"And I could weep," the Oneida chief

His descant wildly thus begun;

"But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in wo!

For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven—of lost delight!
To-morrow let us do or die.

And when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers:
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead!

The desert serpent sleeps alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there
The silence dwells of my despair!

But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry the last—the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"

Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
And tune my harp of Border frame
On the wild banks of Evandale.

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride,
From pleasure's lighter scenes can turn,
To draw oblivion's pall aside,

And mark the long-forgotten urn.

Then, noble maid, at thy command
Again the crumbled walls shall rise;

Lo, as on Evan's bank we stand,
The past returns-the present flies.

Where, with the rocks' wood-covered side,
Were blended late the ruins green,

Rise turrets in fantastic pride,

And feudal banners flaunt between:

Where the rude torrent's brawling course
Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe,
The ashler buttress braves its force,

And ramparts frown in battled row.
'Tis night-the shades of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream;
And on the wave the warder's fire

Is chequering the moonlight beam.
Fades slow their light; the East is gray;
The weary warder leaves his tower;
Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay,
And merry hunters quit the bower.
The drawbridge falls-they hurry out-
Clatters each plank and swinging chain,
As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout

Urge the shy steed and slack the rein.

First of his troop the chief rode on;

His shouting merry-men shout behind; The steed of princely Hamilton

Was fleeter than the mountain wind.

From the thick copse the roebucks bound,
The startled red deer scuds the plain,
For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound
Has roused their mountain haunts again.

Through the huge oaks of Evandale,

Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, What sullen roar comes down the gale, And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? Mightiest of all the beasts of chase

That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race,

The mountain bull comes thundering on. Fierce on the hunter's quivered hand

He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow,
Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow.
Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown
Struggling in blood the savage lies;
His roar is sunk in hollow groan-
Sound, merry huntsmen, sound the pryse

'Tis noon-against the knotted oak
The hunters rest the idle spear;
Curls through the trees the slender smoke,
Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.
Proudly the chieftain marked his clan,

On greenwood lap all careless thrown,
Yet missed his eye the boldest man
That bore the name of Hamilton.

"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place,

Still wont our weal and woe to share? Why comes he not our sport to grace? Why shares he not our hunter's fare?"

Stern Claude replied, with darkening face, (Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he), "At merry feast or buxom chase

No more the warrior wilt thou see.

"Few suns have set since Woodhouselee
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam,
When to his hearths, in social glee,

The war-worn soldier turned him home.
"There, wan from her maternal throes,
His Margaret, beautiful and mild,
Sat in her bower, a pallid rose,

And peaceful nursed her new-born child.

"Oh, change accursed! passed are those days;
False Murray's ruthless spoilers came,
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze,
Ascends destruction's volumed flame.

"What sheeted phantom wanders wild,

Where mountain Esk through woodland flows,
Her arms enfold a shadowy child-
Oh! is it she, the pallid rose?

"The wildered traveler sees her glide,

And hears her feeble voice with awe-
'Revenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride,
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh !'"
He ceased-and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band,
And half arose the kindling chief,

And half unsheathed his Arran brand.
But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock,
Rides headlong with resistless speed,
Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke

Drives to the leap his jaded steed;
Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare,
As one some visioned sight that saw;
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?—
'Tis he, 'tis he, 'tis Bothwellhaugh!
From gory sell and reeling steed

Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound,
And, reeking from the recent deed
He dashed his carbine on the ground.
Sternly he spoke-"Tis sweet to hear
In good greenwood the bugle blown,
But sweeter to revenge's ear

To drink a tyrant's dying groan.

"Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode
At dawning morn o'er dale and down,
But prouder base-born Murray rode

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town.
"From the wild border's humbled side
In haughty triumph marchèd he;
While Knox relaxed his bigot pride,

And smiled the traitorous pomp to see.

"But can stern power with all her vaunt,
Or pomp, with all her courtly glare,
The settled heart of vengeance daunt,
Or change the purpose of despair?

"With hackbut bent, my secret stand,

Dark as the purposed deed, I chose; And marked where, mingling in his band, Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows.

"Dark Morton, girt with many a spear,

Murder's foul minion, led the van; And clashed their broadswords in the rear The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, Obsequious at their regent's rein, And haggard Lindsay's iron eye,

That saw fair Mary weep in vain.

"Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove,

Proud Murray's plumage floated high; Scarce could his trampling charger move, So close the minions crowded nigh.

"From the raised vizor's shade his eye,

Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along; And his steel truncheon, waved on high, Seemed marshaling the iron throng.

"But yet his saddened brow confessed

A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breastBeware of injured Bothwellhaugh.

"The death-shot parts-the charger springsWild rises tumult's startling roar ! And Murray's plumy helmet rings— Rings on the ground-to rise no more. "What joy the raptured youth can feel

To hear her love the loved one tellOr he who broaches on his steel

The wolf by whom his infant fell!

"But dearer to my injured eye

To see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy To hear him groan his felon soul.

"My Margaret's spectre glided near,

With pride her bleeding victim saw,
And shrieked in his death-deafened ear,
Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!
"Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault !

Spread to the wind thy bannered tree!
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!
Murray is fallen and Scotland free!"
Vaults every warrior to his steed;

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim"Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed!

Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame!"

But see, the minstrel vision fails

The glimmering spears are seen no more; The shouts of war die on the gales,

Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.

For the loud bugle, pealing high,

The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie

The bannered towers of Evandale.

For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,
And vengeance shouting o'er the slain,
Lo! high-born beauty rules the steed,
Or graceful guides the silken rein.
And long may peace and pleasure own
The maids who list the minstrel's tale;
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known;
On the fair banks of Evandale.

a

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

JAMES FITZ-JAMES AND ELLEN.

FOOTSTEP struck her ear,

And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turned the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.

"O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said;
How may an almost orphan maid

Pay the deep debt"-"O, say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's King thy suit to aid
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lead his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come; 't is more than line,
He holds his court at morning prime."
With beating heart and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung,
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whispered hope and cheer ;
Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.

Within 't was brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer eve
And from their tissue fancy frames
Aërial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing stayed;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed:

For him she sought who owned this state,
The dreaded prince whose will was fate!
She gazed on many a princely port
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed-
Then turned bewildered and amazed,
For all stood bare; and in the room
Fitz James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent,
On him each courtier's eye was bent,
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring—
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!

As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;
No word her choking voice commands:
She showed the ring, she clasped her hands.
O, not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her, and the while
Checked with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,
And bade her terrors be dismissed :-
"Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes bring;
He will redeem his signet-ring.

Ask naught for Douglas; yester even
His prince and he have much forgiven;
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,
I, from his rebel kinsman, wrong.
We would not to the vulgar crowd

Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our throne.
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What cloud's thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid."
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of power-
When it can say, the godlike voice,
Arise, sad virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On nature's raptures long should pry:
He stepped between—“Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle 't is my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.

Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low, but happier way,
'T is under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils, for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,

Thus learn to right the injured cause."
Then, in a tone apart and low,
"Ah, little trait'ress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive !''
Aloud he spoke-“Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring:
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?"

Full well the conscious maiden guessed,
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But with that consciousness there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deemed the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
"Forbear thy suit; the King of kings

Alone can stay life's parting wings.

I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand.
My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live!—
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save?"
Blushing, she turned her from the king,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wished her sire to speak
The suit that stained her glowing cheek.
"Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm, come forth!"-And, at the word
Down knelt the Græme to Scotland's lord.
"For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlawed man,
Dishonoring thus thy royal name—
Fetters and warder for the Græme!"
His chains of gold the king unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's and.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ક

THE SEA-CAVE

OUNG Neuha plunged into the deep, and he
Followed: her track beneath her native sea,
Was as a native's of the element,

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went,
Leaving a streak of light behind her heel,
Which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel.
Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace
The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase,
Torquil, the nursling of the Northern seas,
Pursued her liquid steps with art and ease.
Deep-deeper for an instant Nehua led

he way—then upward soared—and, as she spread
Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks,
Laughed, and the sound was answered by the rocks.
They had gained a central realm of earth again,
But looked for tree, and field, and sky, in vain.

Around she pointed to a spacious cave,
Whose only portal was the keyless wave,
(A hollow archway by the sun unseen,
Save through the billows' glassy veil of green,
In some transparent ocean holiday,
When all the finny people are at play),

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes,
And clapped her hands with joy at his surprise.
Forth from her bosom the young savage drew
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo;
A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep.
This mantle kept it dry; then from a nook
Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took,
A few shrunk, withered twigs, and from the blade
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus arrayed
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and hign,
And showed a self-born Gothic canopy;
The arch upreared by nature's architect,
The architrave some earthquake might erect;
The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled,
When the poles crashed and water was the world;
There, with a little tinge of phantasy,
Fantastic faces moped and mowed on high,
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix
The eye upon its seeming crucifix.
Then nature played with the stalactites,
And built herself a chapel of the seas.

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand,
And waved along the vault her kindled brand,
And led him into each recess, and showed
The secret places of their new abode.
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared;
The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo,
The sandal-oil to fence against the dew;
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread
Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore
A banquet in the flesh if covered o'er ;

The gourd with water recent from the rill,
The ripe banana from the mellow hill;
A pine torch pile to keep undying light;
And she herself as beautiful as night,
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene,
And make their subterranean world serene.
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail,
And formed a refuge of the rocky den
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen.
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe,
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew;
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower;
And now she spread her little store with smiles,
The happiest daughter of the loving isles.

'Twas morn; and Neuha, who by dawn of day
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray,
And watch if aught approached the amphibious lair
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air :

It flapped, it filled, then to the growing gale
Bent its broad arch: her breath began to fail
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high,
While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie:
But no! it came not; fast and far away,

The shadow lessened as it cleared the bay.

She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes,

To watch as for a rainbow in the skies.

On the horizon verged the distant deck,
Diminished, dwindled to a very speck-

Then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy!

LORD BYRON.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN.

'HE feathered songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn.

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the gray;

And heard the raven's croaking throat
Proclaim the fated day.

"Thou'rt right," quoth he, "for, by the Go That sits enthroned on high!

Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain
To-day shall surely die."

Then with a jug of nappy ale

His knights did on him wait. "Go tell the traitor, that to-day

He leaves this mortal state." Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.