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O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
LORD ULLEN'S DAUGHTER. – Campbell.
A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry,
To row us o'er the ferry."
“Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?" "0, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullen's daughter.
" And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen fast behind us ride, –
Should they our steps discover,
When they have slain her lover?”
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief, — I'm ready,It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady!
LORD ULLEN'S DAUGHTER.
“ And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O, 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, —
The tempest gathered o'er her!
And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;
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! O my daughter!”
'T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
And he was left lamenting.
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. - Bryant.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
Thou comest not when violets lean
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
I would thai thus, when I shall see
MY DOVES. - Miss Barrett.
My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,
Or motion from the sea;
The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down;
With feathers softly brown;
And God them taught, at every close
Of water far, and wind,
Their chanting voices kind;
Fit ministers! of living loves
Theirs hath the calmest sound, -
To lifeless noises round, —
My little doves were taken away
From that glad nest of theirs; Across an ocean foaming aye,
And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves! who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue !
And now, within the city prison
In mist and chillness pent,
For sounds of past content, —
The stir without, the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart, —
With man's metallic heart, —
Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean, — With such a plaintive gaze their eyne Are fastened upwardly to mine!
Their chant is soft as on the nest
Beneath the sunny sky;