O, wildly laugh'd that woman then :
"Glenvarloch! would ye dare to measure
The holy life that God has given
Against a heap of golden treasure?

Ye spurn'd my prayer, for we were poor;
But know, proud man, that God hath power
To smite the king on Scotland's throne,
The chieftain in his fortress-tower.
Frown on! frown on! I fear ye not;

We've done the last of chieftain's bidding;
And cold he lies, for whose young sake
I used to bear your wrathful chiding.

Will gold bring back his cheerful voice,
That used to win my heart from sorrow?
Will silver warm the frozen blood,

Or make my heart less lone to-morrow?
Go back and seek your mountain home,
And when ye kiss your fair-hair'd daughter,
Remember him who died to-night

Beneath the waves of Mona's water."

Old years roll'd on, and new ones came,
Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower;
But nought could bar the sickness out

That stole within fair Annie's bower.
The o'erblown floweret in the sun

Sinks languid down, and withers daily, And so she sank, - her voice grew faint,

Her laugh no longer sounded gayly.

Her step fell on the old oak floor

As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting; And from her sweet and serious eyes

66

They seldom saw the dark lid lifting.

Bring aid! Bring aid!" the father cries;

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Bring aid!" each vassal's voice is crying;

The fair-hair'd beauty of the isles,
Her pulse is faint, her life is flying!"

He call'd in vain; her dim eyes turn'd
And met his own with parting sorrow;
"or well she knew, that fading girl,

That he must weep and wail the morrow. Her faint breath ceased; the father bent And gazed upon his fair-hair'd daughter. What thought he on? The widow's son, And the stormy night by Mona's water.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measure, wan Despair ·
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild!

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song;

And, where her sweetest themes she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair:
And longer had she sung, but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose;

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head!

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes, the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate!

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound:

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.

They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

ALICE CARY.

O GOOD painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,

The picture must not be over-bright, Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer Sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels, — cattle near,

Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)

These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,

Out of a wilding, wayside bush.