"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse's boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?"

Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of friend or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes,
We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is—that I leave
Nothing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vair
Till fed by stranger-hands;

But, long e'er I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to
So not again to mine!

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves.

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!-
My native land,-Good night!

Byron.

Lochiel's Warning.

Wizard. LOCHIEL! Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight: They rally!--they bleed!-for their kingdom and crown, Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? "Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead: For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, Culioden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Or, if

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight!

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

[seer!

Wizard. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling, all lonely!-return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my clan Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal:
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath,
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight:
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores:

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn,

Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn?
Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

We are Seven.

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said,
Her hair was thick, with many a curl,
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondrous look'd at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answer'd "seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother,
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;
Yet you are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we,
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

Campbell.

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then you are only five?"

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,'
The little maid replied;

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side!

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often, after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane,
In bed she moaning lay;
Till God releas'd her of her pain,
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid,
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forc'd to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I, If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little maid's reply

66

"O, master, we are seven!"

"But they are dead-these two are dead,

Their spirits are in heaven!” 'Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will

And said "Nay! we are seven."

Wordsworth.