NATIVE LAND.

[From _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.]

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said.

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his t.i.tles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those t.i.tles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and s.h.a.ggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand?

Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft Sole friends thy woods and streams are left: And thus I love them better still Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot's stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan.

SUNSET ON THE BORDER.

[From _Marmion_.]

Day set on Norham's castled steep And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone: The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loop-hole grates where captives The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow l.u.s.ter shone.

The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky Seemed forms of giant height: Their armor; as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light.

St. George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung.

The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march, The warden kept his guard; Low humming, as he pa.s.sed along, Some ancient border-gathering song.

PROUD MAISIE.

Proud Maisie is in the wood Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?"

--"When six braw[184] gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?"

"The gray-headed s.e.xton That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady."

[Footnote 184: Brave, fine.]

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Conuil.

Come away, come away, hark to the summons!

Come in your war array, gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen and from mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy.

Come every hill-plaid and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come when forests are rended; Come as the waves come when navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come; faster and faster, Chief, va.s.sal, page and groom, tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset!

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?-- To thy chamber-window, sweet.

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the gra.s.s!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heartbeats loud and fast: O! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

VENICE.

[From _Lines Written in the Euganean Hills_.]

Sun-girt city, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.

A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state; Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown, Like a rock of ocean's own Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly.

The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pa.s.s the gloomy sh.o.r.e, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path.

A LAMENT.

O world! O life! O time!

On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before, When will return the glory of your prime?