Stanzas.

Winged from the rude rock's pinnacle;
He reeled-he staggered-and he fell
Downward upon his LONA's breast,
And sunk to everlasting rest.
That moment, rolling mountain high
A billow broke across the bark,
And deep from every human eye

Engulphed them in its bosom dark.
The lightning flashed across the stream,
The nightbird rung its funeral scream,
The stranger shouted wild and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill;
But all was peaceful, calm, and still,
When morning dawned upon the tide
Where lay the EXILE and his BRIDE!

Το

STANZAS.

When thou and I are distant far,
Like barks that part in stormy weather
Oh! watch betimes that lonely star
On which so oft we've gazed together:
And when upon its lingering beam
You dwell in sweet despondency,

Then think of him, whose fondest dream
Of bliss-was but to rest with thee!

That dream is past-and with it, all
The bright, ideal, hopes that won me;
And vain I struggle to recal

The hearts that never wished to shun me;
One-one alone, through ev'ry scene

Was born to bless me and adore,

But fate hath rolled a flood between,
And thou and I must meet no more.

Yet many a thought of vanished years
Shall memory still in fondness treasure,
When eyes
that now are dim with tears
Were only kindled then with pleasure;}
And dearer ev'ry thought shall be,

By sweet remembrance of the hours

He passed in earlier days with thee,

When all around was light and flowers!

Song.

SONG.

Air." Caledonian Laddie."

COME, rouse the grieshock, let us ha'e
Some tale o' Scotland's glory,

For Robin Duncan lo'es to hear
The auld historic story;

And she was aince the land o' chiels,
O' bold and bravest souls, sirs,

Wha fear'd not a' beneath the sun,
That's stretch'd frae pole to pole, sirs,

Then rouse the grieshock,-let us ha'e
Some tale o' ancient glory;

For Scotiand boasts to ken her fame
The first in martial story.

The highland plaid, the lowland plume,
The broad-sword and the bonnet,
Gi'e youth and vigor to my heart,
Though grief and age are on it:
The bairn that burns wi' Scottish bluid,
Though it is mean and lowly,
Has welcome in these aged arms,
For Scottish bluid is holy!

Then rouse the grieshock,-what is pride
If we disdain to mingle,
Or share the laurel wi' a score
We won alone and single.

Oh! what are a' the names and pelf
Q' those wha sit in state, sirs?
Can gold or titles change their hearts,
Or make the bad man great, sirs?
Awa' wi' these-for Scotia's sons
Are wealthy in their honor;
And may she never want their aid
When shame or danger 's on her!

Then rouse the grieshock,-close around,
Ye brothers o' my bosom ;

The hours are stakes o' life, and man
To friends alone should lose 'em.

My highland lass! the auld man's heart
Has gi'en thee mony a blessing-
When younger lips thy lips had prest,
And younger arms were pressing:

VOL. 1.-No. III.

2 H

Glenullin and Malvina.

And these were, Jeannie, a' thou saw'st,
And these were all thou knewest,
But now, when thou hast gang'd afar,
Wha hast thou found the truest ?

But, rouse the grieshock-hame is hame,
Where'er that hame may be, lass,
The cot that's roof'd wi' straw at hame,
Is worth the town to me, lass.

But now thou art mine ain again,
Thine e'e is dry and brightning!
But ah! it is the cauld brown leaf
Left blighted by the lightning!
But what o' this-thou art mine ain,
And thou hast done wi' weeping-
Like flowers, when day's bleak snaw is past,
Beneath the moonlight sleeping.

Then, rouse the grieshock,-life is dull,
And lanely at the best o' 't,

And he who sometimes tastes o' peace,
To chance may gi'e the rest o' 't.

But, Jeannie, when the graff has closed,
And Duncan is na mair, Jane,
What wilt thou do, my highland bairn?
Thou'lt feel it deep and sair, Jane!
But come the future as it will,

The world is lang before thee,

When Duncan's hand is pass'd frae thee
Another's will be o'er thee.

Then, rouse the grieshock,-what are cares
But bubbles on the water-

Thy smiles shall break them as they rise,-
My highland bairn! my daughter!

GLENULLIN AND MALVINA,

See Avon's mouldering ruined towers,
The lone remains of happier hours;
Where the sweet harp of old was strung,
And bards awoke the festive song,

That told the deeds of other days,
And gave to each its meed of praise;
Of blue-eyed maids, whose smiles are o'er,
And chieftains, who are now no more;

Glenullin and Malvina.

Chiefs, who in times of old displayed
The lightning of their battle blade,
When Albion's watchfires streamed afar,
The signal-lights of death and war!
There too, the revel ever gave
Its cheerful welcome to the brave;
The festive board was often spread,
And the light dance with lively tread
Was measured by the young and fair,
Whom love and music gathered there.

'Twas then, before those happy days
O'er Avon ceased to shed their rays,
And while its halls stood high in air,
Nor mouldered to the ruins there,
Malvina bloomed,-and every hour
That brightened o'er her woodbine bower,
Brought with it ever something new,
To charm the gentle maiden too;
But long she cherished in her breast,
A passion without hope or rest,
To her the sweetest, though the worst
A maiden bosom ever nursed;

Yet blame her not, for he, who drew
The vision o'er her, loved her too,
Loved with that pure and holy flame
That all through life still burns the same,
And, like the sunflower, ever turns

Still to its God, where'er he burns.
Oh! blame her not-the sighs that stole
In secret from her inmost soul,

The bloom that faded from her cheek,
Those weeping eyes-too well could speak
The withering passion, that had preyed
So long upon the lovely maid.

Soon as the beams of day were gone,
And the lone hour of night came on,
The hour that lovers always bless,
So lovely is its loneliness,

Glenullin ever crossed the lake,

And found his loved one there awake;
Found only her awake, and weeping,
While all the world around was sleeping;
Awake-to see the rippling tide
Sparkle around his shallop's side,
To hear the dipping of the oars,
That waft him to her midnight shores,

Glenullin and Malvina.

And weeping-lest some ill-starr'd hour
Should keep him from her lonely bower,
Where every evening calm and sweet,
The happy pair were wont to meet,
To tell their passion o'er and o'er,
And seal the vows they pledged before.

One night-a stilly, lovely night,
When all around seemed calm and bright,
Glenullin steered his little skiff

O'er the smooth lake, from yonder cliff.
The moon was beaming in her pride,
And sparkled on the sleeping tide,
That, basking in the beam of night,
Gave mildly back the silvery light.-
Timpassioned souls, and weeping eyes,
How soothing are the evening skies,
How sweet their loneliness comes on,
When day's last lingering beam is gone!
How sweet to him, who, seated there,
Gives to the wind his raven hair,

And steering o'er the silent tide,
Still thinks upon his lovely bride!
Too dearly sweet! for while he thought
On the loved one, he heeded not
The clouds, that riding on the blast,
Veiled him in midnight as they passed;
The storm, that gathering on high,
Was sweeping o'er the troubled sky;
The Benshee flitting darkly by,
The harbinger of ruin nigh;
But onward mid the waters dark,

Still calm he steered his little bark,

Through the wild waves, unawed, unmoved,
Reckless of all but her he loved!

He thought not, that his struggling oar
Was ne'er to reach the distant shore,-
He thought not, that the surfy wave
Was soon to be his cheerless grave-
His winding-sheet, the whitening foam,
And the hushed wave his only tomb!

Oh! who can tell the weight of woe
That crushed the maid, when he was low-
He, whom she cherished in her breast,
Her soul's first idol, and its last!
Oh! who can tell the withering pain,
That burn'd upon her fevered brain,