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And the light that linger'd in the West
Was like a love-lorn maiden's eye, When blushes tell her soul's unrest,
And the glow of her hope begins to die, Then our Lady went to her bower to view The flowers that around her terrace grew.
Our Lady shone in her diadem;
Her lap was rich, with a hundred fold
Of woven pearls and cloth of gold, That earth was proud to kiss its hem : And a web of diamonds was her vest,
That seem'd as if a summer show'r,
Taught by a cunning wizard's pow'r, Had gather'd to sparkle on her breast ; But among the flowers in her proud array The dead leaf of November lay.
Our Lady turn'd her velvet steed
To see whence the smoke of the cottage rose,
Where the wild bee hums and the woodbine grows, And the lambs among the violets feed : There palsied age lean’d on his crutch, Her kind and loving hand to touch ; And while she smil'd on his lowly cell, The dead leaf from her garland fell.
The pomp of our Lady's day went past,
Her grave was shut, and all were gone, But that dead leaf rose upon the blast,
And rested on her funeral stone:
And it had gather'd the richest seed
FAIR ELLEN OF LORN.
O! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
“ 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 display'd.
“ I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd 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 !"
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween:
. “I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
“ I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
The old shepherd's dog, like his master, was grey,
His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue ;
Thus happy through life did they hobble along.
* "I do not love a cat,” says the author of this piece, “his disposition is mean and suspicious. A friendship of years is cancelled in a moment, by an accidental tread on his tail or foot. He instantly spits, raises his rump, t his tail of malignity, and shuns you: turning back, as he goes off, a staring When fatigued, on the grass the old shepherd would lie,
e face, full of horrid oaths and unforgiveness ; seeming to say “Perdition catch you! I hate you for ever.” But the Dog is my delight: tread on his tail or foot, he expresses, for a moment, the uneasiness of his feeling; but in a moment again, the complaint is ended. He runs around you; jumps up against you; seems to declare his sorrow for complaining, as it was not intentionally done ; nay, even to make himself the aggressor; and begs, by whinings and lickings, that master will think of it no more." Dogs are, in general, endued with wonderful sagacity; indeed no animal has hitherto been found so entirely adapted to our use, and even to our protection ; his diligence, his ardour, and his obedience are inexhaustible, and, unlike any other animal, he seems to remember only the benefits be receives Such a one as this appears to have been our dog, Tray; he had endeared himself to Corin, his master, by every action of his life, and which had insensibly knit their hearts together they seemed to live only for each other, nor in the end could death part them. “ Bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend,” were the dying injunctions of the poor old shepherd. They indeed were friends,
For a nap in the sun; 'midst his slumbers so sweet, His faithful companion crawl'd constantly nigh,
Plac'd his head on his lap, or lay down at his feet.
When winter was heard on the hill and the plain,
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind; If Corin went forth ’mid the tempest and rain,
Tray scorn'd to be left in the chimney behind.
At length in the straw Tray made his last bed ;
For vain, against death, is the stoutest endeavour : To lick Corin's hand he rear’d up his weak head,
Then fell back, clos'd his eyes, and, ah ! clos'd them for ever.
Not long after Tray did the shepherd remain,
Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend ; And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain,
Oh! bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend.
The lovely Ellen was laid in her shroud,
The tapers were round ber burning;
Cad in their weeds of mourning.