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Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers, – And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.
O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to the bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.
ln silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
“Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn; —
Why speak ye no word?” said Glenara the stern.
“And tell me, I charge ye, 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 displayed.
100 TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt 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. ”
O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ;
Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream . "
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that lady is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. — Humff.
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass.
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine, both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, —
In doors and out, Summer and winter — mirth.
LORD ULLEN'S DAUGHTER.— Campbell.
A cIIIEFTAIN 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 ?”
“O, I’m the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullen'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 fast behind us ride, —
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover ?”
Outspoke the hardy Highland 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 arméd men, –
Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O, 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, O, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!
And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullen reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismayed, through storm and sh
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! O my daughter!”
*T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o'er his child,-
And he was left lamenting.
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.—Bryant.
THou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heavens' own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue, –blue,—as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.