It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.-

Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn?

They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sun-beam, or melted to dew?
Oh! would it had been so! O would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still!

Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;

To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,

While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.

Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,

And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on, "Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,

"And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again !"

PROLOGUE

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY

OF THE

FAMILY LEGEND.

"TIS

Is sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh,

Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;

'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear

Of distant music, dying on the ear;

But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,

We list the legends of our native land,

Link'd as they come with every tender tie,

Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,

Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.

Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,

Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,

He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!

It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; ́ Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,

The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;

The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,

By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,

And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.

The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,

Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind?

* Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

Oh no! For she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,

And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,

Points to the fatal rock amid the roar

Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give

Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, shall Caledon approve

The filial token of a Daughter's love!