THE YOUNG CHIEF'S FIRST RIDE.
YOUNG Scion of honor-fair child of a race,
Whose sires, from the records of Old Albyn trace
Their lineage, their birthright, their fame and their
Since first on their hills, the heath waved its flower.
Thou drop from the fount of a true highland heart,
Whose current from honor did never depart-
Thou sapling that's sprung from a firm mountain pine:
Round thy form may the halo of liberty shine,
Untarnished thy honor-unsullied thy truth-
A shield of the helpless-dispenser of ruth.
Ay, smile in thy innocence, beautiful child!
The ruddiest rose of thy own native wild,
Is pale to thy cheek—and the lily must bow
To the stainless and beautiful plane of thy brow;
Not brighter the light of the star in the sky,
Than the blue flashing glance of thy young eagle eye,
Not the flower of the furze in the zephyr's caress,
Can match with the hue of thy golden rich tress,
As proudly thou amblest o'er mountain and dale,
Thou gallant young Donald, true son of the Gael!
The fond vassal gazes-his locks snowy white-
On the son of his chieftain with pride and delight,
And craves from his God that yet his old eyes
May behold his young master to manhood arise;
Like that sire, may his heart cling aye to his clan,
The fearless in battle-in mercy a man,
And never, oh, never, his highland soul bend,
To the rule of the Saxon, or law of their land,
But proudly and bravely in liberty rove,
The lord of the mountain, of forest and grove.
The bloodhound, with instinct, regards the blithe boy, And silently joins in his innocent joy,
And the stout shaggy courser is prancing with pride,
As he shared in the mirth of the chieftain's first ride,
While his little rough guardians and mates of his play,
Are barking and bounding before him away.
Their voices have startled the deer from his lair,
And the eagle is screaming aloft in the air.
Oh! group of affection-life's picture all bright-
Youth, Age, dumb fidelity-soul-stirring sight.
Oh! blest be thy parents, my bonnie young flower,
Thou rose-bud of beauty-the pride of their bower;
May the dew of their love, and the light of their eye,
Cause thy leaves to expand in liberty's sky,
And like thy own thistle on crag, vale, or wold,
Be thy courage as stern, and thy bearing as bold;
May the deeds of thy sire nerve thy heart and thy hand,
To guard and to cherish thy dear native land,
And sooner the coronach swell for thy death,
Than to live in the taint of tyranny's breath.
VOL. XV.-SIG. 1
Alas! alas, my good old tree!
A fatal change is past on thee;
And now thy aged form I see
All helpless, lying low!
The rending tempest, in his flight,
'Mid darkness of the wintry night,
Hath struck thee, passing in his might,
And felled thee at a blow.
And never more the blooming spring, Shall, to thy boughs rich verdure bring, Or her gay birds, to flit and sing
Where their first plumage grew! For thou, so long, so fondly made My eye's delight-my summer shade, Here, as a lifeless king, art laid
In state, for all to view.
Thy noble trunk and reverend head,
Defined on that cold, snow-white bed;
And those old arms so lowly spread,
Thy hopelessness declare.
Thy roots, in earth concealed so longThat struck so deep, with hold so strong, Upturned with many a broken prong,
Are quivering high in air.
But yester-eve, I saw thee stand,
With lofty front-with aspect grand,
Where thou hadst braved the ruthless hand Of time, and spread, and towered,
And stood the rain, the hail, the blast, 'Till more than hundred years had passed, To fall so suddenly at last,
For ever overpowered!
Yet while I sadly ponder o'er
What now thou art, and wast before,
Though sighs should rise, and tears should pour
Like summer winds and rain,
Not all the sighs and drops of grief,
Can bring to thee one bud or leaf;
Thou liest so like a stricken chief,
By one swift arrow slain.
But may'st thou prove an emblem true,
Of what the spoiler's hand shall do
With one who, pensive, here would view
A shadowy type in thee!
Let not the conqueror piecemeal slay,
With power by power, in slow decay;
But strike, and all in ashes lay!
Farewell, my good old Tree.
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