THE ORPHAN LADY

OF

GLENALLON.

I.

Returned from many a field of death,

From bayonets rank'd for slaughter ready, I sought the peaceful banks of Teith, That sweetly flows beneath Benledi: There in my arms my Agnes lock'd, First fondly whisper'd me to love her;

My mother there my cradle rock'd,

And there the grass my grave shall cover!

II.

The midnight moon was waning fast,

The stream beneath the star-beams glinting,

Flew like my boyhood's visions past,

When, hark! a lady, sore lamenting.

Her tones that pierced the rocks above,

Seem'd from the scene fresh grief to borrow,

They were the accents of my love,

Pouring to Heaven her tale of sorrow!

III.

Her mother to her grave was gone,

Her father in the fight had fallen;
She roam'd the lands were once her own,
The outcast orphan of Glenallon.

But when she sang of love's decay,
Of him who won but to deceive her,
Her tones in anguish died away

She sank beside the foaming river.

IV.

Oh! if there's aught a loving maid
Can from despair like death recover,
It is to find her bosom laid

On the true bosom of her lover,

I snatched her from the sweeping tide,

I kiss'd her tears that fast were falling,—

That lady's now a blooming bride,

And I'm the Lord of fair Glenallon!

S

THE DREAMING HOUR.

TO AURA.

When the mountains gray, at the dawn of day,
Like sleeping giants lie;

When the morning clouds, from their misty shroud,
Are stealing to the sky;

When the stars grow dim, and awakes each flowerThat is the Poet's dreaming hour.

When the rustling breeze, through the forest trees,
From leaf to leaf doth creep;

When down the dell where fairies dwell,
The merry streamlets leap;

When the birds their mellow matins pour-
That is the Poet's dreaming hour.

When the billows roar on a rocky shore,
And the wind is howling by;

And the waning moon is sliding down
A dark and stormy sky;—

That is an hour of bliss to me,

The dreaming hour of Poesie!

When the stars are bright in a winter night;
In sunshine and in storm;

Or 'neath the moon of a leafy June,
Where'er thy visioned form,

Beloved! round my pathway gleams-
That is my hour of dearest dreams.

Were mine the fire of Byron's lyre,

(And, durst I breathe thy name,)

Thy goodness, grace, and loveliness,
I'd to the world proclaim;

With all the charms my soul that bless,
In many a dreaming hour like this.

BIRTH-DAY STANZAS.

TO AURA.

I.

Oh! never while this heart can rapture feel,
Will it forget this dear, this blessed night;
As on their course the rolling seasons wheel,
Still be its place serene and glad and bright,
Joy wing the golden hours whose rapid flight
Bear it for ever to the silent past!

Still be it consecrated to delight,

And, oh! may Love his gentlest radiance cast On each succeeding year more brightly than the last!

II.

Just seventeen fleet-wing'd years away have fled,
Since my beloved Aura saw the light:

Seventeen sweet summers now on her have shed
All they can yield of pure and good and bright;
And the loved maid was there with me to-night,

And her dear gentle mother by her side

Sate with her placid mien of calm delight,

Or quietly around the room did glide,

And looked in love on me and her my promised bride.