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And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

PIBROCH OF DONALD 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 warpipe 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 uninterr'd,

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,
Chies, vassal, page, and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come ;

See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with hea ner.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!

A FAREWELL TO THE HARP.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending ; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herdboy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!

Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,

Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. [own. That I o'erlive such woes, enchantress! is thine Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some spirit of the air has waked thy string ! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing.

VOL. II.-X

Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell; And now 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee

well!

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FROM "THE SABBATH." How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear: the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O’ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village

broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;

And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, imbosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face, and upward, earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

1766-1823.

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THE FARMER'S BOY."-AUTUMN.
The pride of such a party, nature's pride,
Was lovely Anne, who innocently tried,
With hat of airy shape and ribands gay,
Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way:
But, ere her twentieth summer could expand,
Or youth was render'd happy with her hand,

Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone,
Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone:
Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for, quick restrain'd,
Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd;
Whims wild and simple led her from her home,
The heath, the common, or the fields to roam :
Terror and joy alternate ruled her hours ;
Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flowers;
Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough,
To whip the hovering demons from her brow.
Ill-fated maid! thy guiding spark is filed,
And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed
Thy bed of straw! for mark where even now
O’er their lost child afflicted parents bow;
Their wo she knows not, but, perversely coy,
Inverted customs yield her sullen joy ;
Her midnight meals in secrecy she takes,
Low muttering to the moon, that, rising, breaks
Through night's dark gloom : oh, how much more

forlorn
Her night, that knows of no returning morn!
Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat,
O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat ;
Quitting the cot's warm walls, unhoused to lie,
Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty,
The damp night-air her shivering limbs assails;
In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails.
When morning wakes, none earlier roused than she,
When pendant drops fall glittering from the tree;
But naught her rayless melancholy cheers,
Or sooths her breast, or stops her streaming tears.
Her matted locks unornamented flow;
Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro,
Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide
A piteous mourner by the pathway side.
Some tufted molehill through the livelong day
She calls her throne ; there weeps her life away!
And oft the gayly-passing stranger stays
His well-timed step, and takes a silent gaze,

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