Outspoke the bardy Highland wight
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-

It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady:

And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, 'I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;*
And in the scowl of heav'n each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.-

Oh haste thee, haste! the lady cries, 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,

A stormy sea before her,

When oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather'd o'er her.

*The evil spirit of the waters.

And stil! they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was chang'd to wailing

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover':

One lovely hand she stretch'd 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 lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child-

And be was left lamenting.

LINES

ON THE

GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,

Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead:
For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head-
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve

Launch on that water by the witches' tow'r,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r,
For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life's unfinish'd road

To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd

In thy devoted bosom-and the hand

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?— He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun

His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,

is children four the Seasons flew.

First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smil'd with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace :

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles:

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,

To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,

With barren darkness by his side.