For what she knew she could not tell, O'ermastered by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir Leoline? Thy only child Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, So fair, so innocent, so mild; The same for whom thy lady died! O, by the pangs of her dear mother, Think thou no evil of thy child! For her, and thee, and for no other, She prayed the moment ere she died, Prayed that the babe for whom she died Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, Sir Leoline!

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine?

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II.

A LITTLE child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 't is pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.

117

Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame, should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[1774-1843.]

STANZAS.

My days among the dead are passed;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity:

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;

The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled
around,

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbro-

thok.

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape
float.

Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes
to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away,
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

Louder or fainter, as it rose

Or died away, was borne

The harmony of merry bells

From Brough, that pleasant morn.

"Why are the merry bells of Brough, My friend, so few?" said I; "They disappoint the expectant ear, Which they should gratify.

"One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four;

'Tis still one, two, three, four: Mellow and silvery are the tones;

But I wish the bells were more!"

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet forewarning?

JAMES HOGG.

[1772-1835.]

WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY.

O, WHAT will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day;-
O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for 't,
A waefu' wight is he;

Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for 't,
An' laid him down to dee;
And Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
And learnin fast to pray;
O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The young laird o' the Lang Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said-in confidence-
The lassie was divine;

And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than ony priest should say;-
But O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The wailing in our green glen

That day will quaver high,

THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY.

121

BONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hip and the hindberrye,
And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-
tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the green-wood
shaw;

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame!

When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,

When the bedesman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,

Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still,

When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill,

The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;

When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;

The laverock frae the sky;

The fairies frae their beds o' dew
Will rise and join the lay, —
An' hey! what a day 't will be
When Maggy gangs away?

her e'e,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant

lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless

sea.