"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 66 Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies: But not an angry father.' The boat has left a stormy land, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, For sore dismayed, through storm and shade One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: "And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh my daughter!" "Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child And he was left lamenting. LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! And render back thy being's heavy load. That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace: › Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep On India's citron-covered isles: The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne But howling Winter fled afar, And trampling on her faded form : Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending às thou art, Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds: When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Oh winds of winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallowed breath May spare the victim, fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human wo.* * This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 1 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn |