My lips that speak thy dirge of death
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, sun, while mercy holds me up On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?" "Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For, should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

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,

"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!

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sunthy heaven of lost delight!

"To-morrow let us do or die!
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead!

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed;

And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there, in desolation cold,
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering
bone,

And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Like me, are death-like old.