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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;

* Written under the threat of invasion, in the autumn of 1804.

"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!

"Souls of the mighty! wake and say,

"To what high strain your harps were strung,
"When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,
"And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
"Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
"Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
"All by your harpings doom'd to die
"On bloody Largs and Loncarty. †

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* The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Redhand.

Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.
The Galgacus of Tacitus.

"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 !"

TO A LADY,

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.-Walter Scott.

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THE NYMPH OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.-MRS HUNter.

NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn
Wastes its pure waters on the rock below;
There no green herbage shall a leaf return,

No plant can flourish and no flow'r can blow;
Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals,
Dwells on the heath-clad hills, around thy waterfalls,

1.

Yet not in vain thy murm'ring fountain flows,
It cheers the wand'rer in the dreary waste;
Awakes dull Silence from his deep repose,
And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste.
For this the grateful muse in fancy twines,
Around thy urn, the rose and waving wild woodbines.

And when far distant from the glowing scene

Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods,
From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green,
His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods;
Mem'ry shall turn in many a waking dream,

To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain-stream,

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.-MRS HUNTER,

THE Sun declines, his parting ray
Shall bear the cheerful light away,
And on the landscape close;
Then will I seek the lonely vale,
Where sober ev'ning's primrose pale,
To greet the night-star blows.

Soft melancholy bloom, to thee
I turn, with conscious sympathy,-
Like thee my hour is come;
When length'ning shadows slowly fade,
Till lost in universal shade,

They sink beneath the tomb.

By thee I'll sit, and inly muse,
What are the charms in life we lose,

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HOW D'YE DO AND GOOD-BYE.-Original.

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