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XXIII.

SONG.

AIR.What ails this heart o' mine,

Her kiss was soft and sweet,
Her smiles were free and faia,
And beaming bright the witching glance
Of her I thought my ain.

That kiss has poison'd peace,
Her smiles have rous'd despair,
For kindly tho' her glances be
They beam on me nae mair.

Now lonely's every haunt
That I once trode with joy,
And dull and drear the sacred grove
Where we were wont to toy.

The rose can please nae mair,
The lily seems to fade,
And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang,
That us'd to cheer the glade.

This bosom once was gay,
But now a brow of gloom
Pourtrays, in characters of care,
That it is pleasure's tomb.

Yet none shall hear the sigh
That struggles to be free,
No tear shall trace this sallow cheek,
No murmur burst from me.

Tho' silent be my woe,
'Tis not the less severe
Forlorn I brood on former joys
To love and mem'ry dear.

She minds na o'the vows
That seald our youthful love,
But heaven bas records that will last,
My faith and truth to prove,

XXIV.

DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF *,

Who was executed after the Rebellion,

Son of the mighty and the free,
Lov'd leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee

To fill a nameless grave ?
Oh! hadst thou slumbered with the slain;
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not.

But darkly clos'd thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sun-beams rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,

The watch-word of despair;
Yet oh, if gallant spirit's power,
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line.

* This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman, on reading immediately after its first appearance, she well known work, entitled « Waverley.” It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if he should approve, and under his correction, that it might be inserted in the future editions of that celebrated Novel. The individual, however, to whom it was addressed, being wholly unconnected with the work referred to, and having no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged proper,

O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom,
Those beams that gild thy native walls,

Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the lov'd scenes may vainly smile,

Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar,
Unmark’d the red deer sport around-

Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are clos'd, thy halls are still,
Those halls where swell?d the choral strain,--
They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill,

And all is hush'd again.

Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke;
His fire-his joy of song is past ;--
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,

His saddest and his last.
No other theme to him is dear
Than lofty deeds of thine;
Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear

pros Last of a mighty line.

both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal, which we conceive it so well calculated to afford.

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The bell had toll’d the midnight hour,

Monimia sought the shade,
The cheerless yew tree mark'd the spot

Where Leontine was laid.

With soft and trembling steps, the maid

Approach'd the drear abode,
A tear-drop glisten’d on her cheek,

And dew'd her lover's sod.

Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook,

And sigh'd with hollow moan; The wand'ring moon had sunk to rest,

And faint the twilight shone.

Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,

Dew'd with the tear of sorrow, While oft she press'd her lover's grave,

Nor wak’d with dawn of morrow.

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