THIS poem of "Glenara," written in the year 1797, at the age of nineteen, was suggested by the following tradition:"Maclean, of Duart, having determined to get rid of his wife, 'Ellen of Lorn,' had her treacherously conveyed to a rock in the sea, where she was left to perish by the rising tide. He then announced to her kinsmen 'his sudden be reavement,' and exhorted them to join in his grief. In the mean time the lady was accidentally rescued from the certain death that awaited her, and restored to her father. Her husband, little suspecting what had happened, was suffered to go through the solemn mockery of a funeral. At last, when the bier rested at the 'gray stone of her cairn,' on examination of the coffin by her kinsmen, it was found to contain stones, rubbish, &c., whereupon Maclean was instantly sacrificed by the Clan Dougal and thrown into the ready-made grave." This wild and romantic story has been rendered immortal by the late Joanna Baillie, in "The Family Legend." EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood; And where is the bosom friend dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without mea sure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, ; Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!1 1 Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever. 1800. "WHILE tarrying at Hamburg, I made acquaintance with some of the refugee Irishmen who had been concerned in the rebellion of 1798. Among these was Anthony Mac Cann, an honest, excellent man, who is still, I believe, alive, at least I left him in prosperous circumstances at Altona a few years ago. [Mac Cann is since dead; Campbell and he met last in the autumn of 1825.] When I first knew him he was in a situation much the reverse; but Anthony commanded respect, whether he was rich or poor. It was in consequence of meeting him one evening on the banks of the Elbe, lonely and pensive at the thoughts of his situation, that I wrote the 'Exile of Erin.' LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. His horsemen hard behind us ride; Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief-I'm ready : |