a v back pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, Is whistling the forest lullaby :

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the Bard in fitful mood,

His song was louder than the blast,

As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest passed.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The spectre with his bloody hand,
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!

Souls of the mighty! wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung,
When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,
And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.

Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines with whistling change
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!

Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,

When Murder with his bloody foot,

And Rapine with his iron hand,

Were hovering near your mountain strand.

O yet awake the strain to tell,
By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold ;-
From Coilgach, first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir,

By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell !
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the mighty strain to tell;

For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!

The wind is hushed, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years-
"When targets clashed, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymned the joys of Liberty!"

TO A LADY.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

Published in the Edinburgh Anuual Register for 18C8.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE VIOLET.

Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808.

THE violet in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,

May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;

I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,

Ere yet the day be passed its morrow:

Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.