In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
Fate deadened thine ear and imprisoned thy tongue;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose

The glow of the genius they could not oppose;
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,

Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail.

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell,-
In the spring time of youth and of promise they fell!
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail.

And thou, gentle Dame, who must bear to thy grief,
For thy clan and thy country the cares of a Chief,
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail,
That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail!

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN,

FROM THE GAELIC.

This song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to a eulogium over the military glories of the Chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

A

WEARY month has wandered o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, Love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!-

'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word:
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:

He called his kindred bands on board,

And launched them on the main.

Clan-Gillian* is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won,

In many a bloody broil :

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Wo to the hills that shall rebound
Our bannered bagpipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round,

Shall shake their inmost cell.

Wo to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays;
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!

e. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

SAINT CLOUD.

SOFT

spread the southern Summer night Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sighed,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,
That garrison Saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint Cloud.

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,
Prolonged 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 he drew,

Than ours, when gathered 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.

PARIS, Sept. 5, 1815.

THE END.