SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?

Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.

The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

A PEt.i.tION TO TIME.

Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three,-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things.

Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime;-- Touch us gently, gentle Time!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

GLENARA.

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and h.o.a.r: "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?"--said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain:--no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud: "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other.

A garland, of seven lilies wrought!

Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the sh.o.r.es of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing.

But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed!

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!"

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together."

A lake was near; the sh.o.r.e was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells.

Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BIRKENHEAD.

Amid the loud ebriety of War, With shouts of "la Republique" and "la Gloire,"

The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag And broadside blazing level with the wave Went down erect, defiant, to their grave Beneath the sea.--Twas but a Frenchman's brag, Yet Europe rang with it for many a year.

Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear!