True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love and friendship's smile
Be memory of the lonely isle.

But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his Highland home:
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that sooths a wanderer's wo;
Remember then thy hap ere while,
A stranger in the lonely isle.

Or if, on life's uncertain main,
Mishap shall mar thy sail;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
Wo, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
But come where kindred worth shall smile,
To greet thee in the lonely isle.

HELVELLYN.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountainheather,

Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And oh, was it meet that-no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before himUnhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted

hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beam

ing;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,

When wilder'd he drops from some cliff huge in

stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.

PIBROCH Of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The warpipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges;
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come when
Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come when
Navies are stranded;

Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come ;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!

A FAREWELL TO THE HARP.

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herdboy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. [own. That I o'erlive such woes, enchantress! is thine Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing. VOL. II.-X

Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell;
And now 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee
well!

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear: the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweet from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village
broods;

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;