Out spoke the hardy island wight, "I'll go, my chief- I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

66

Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed through storm and shade,

His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh! my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

THE LAMENT OF OUTALISSI. [Gertrude of Wyoming.]

"AND I could weep;" th' Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son !
Or bow his head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath

(That fires yon heav'n with storms of death,)

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

there

The silence dwells of my despair!

"But hark, the trump!

thou

Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;

But alas in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can

meet me no more!

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace

me

In a mansion of peace- where no perils can chase me?

Never again, shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?

Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure!

Tears like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee this blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,

For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight,

And when laisies and buttercups gladdened my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm,

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,

And the deep mellow crush of the woodpigeon's note

Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter

tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,

When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,

And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;

What loved little islands twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore; What landscapes I read in the prim rose's looks,