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"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!
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
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 Lorn,
"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.- Hunt.
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.
A CHIEFTAIN 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!
LORD ULLEN'S DAUGHTER.
"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 shade,
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.
I would thai thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,
Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
Or motion from the sea;
Forever there the sea winds go,
With sunlit faces, to and fro.
The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down;
And there my little doves did sit,
With feathers softly brown;
And glittering eyes, that showed their right
To general nature's deep delight.
And God them taught, at every close
Of water far, and wind,
And lifted leaf, to interpose
Their chanting voices kind;
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.
Fit ministers! of living loves
Theirs hath the calmest sound, ·
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless noises round,
In such sweet monotone as clings
To music of insensate things!