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In darkness, through the dreary length
Of winter, slept both bud and bloom ;
And starts, renew'd, as from the tomb ;
O man! a star hath shone to save,
The midnight darkness of the grave !
Yet ponder well, how then shall break
The dawn of second life on thee,-
Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee ?
That makes or weal or woe thine own;
Must reap the harvest Time has sown!
Treasures of the Deep.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main ! Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the Depths have more !-What wealth
untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness,
lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main !
Earth claims not thee again!
Yet more, the Depths have more !—Thy waves
have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay !
Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more !
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest, Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave !
Give back the true and brave !
Give back the lost and lovely !—Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless
gloom, And the vain yearning woķe 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own !
The Savoyard's Return.
Oh! yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home! Oh! welcome is yon
Where I shall rest no more to roam ! Oh! I have travel'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land ;
But all their charms could not prevail
Of distant climes the false report
Allured me from my native land; It bade me rovemy
support My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights ;
That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
Shall while away the winter's eve.
O’er many a distant foreign land ;
and danced my saraband;
Wiz. LOCHIEL ! Lochiel, beware of the day
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ;