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But why do the matrons, while dressing the dead,
Say, was there foul play?-Then, why sleeps the red thunder?
Ah! hold, for suspicion stands silent with wonder.
Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle,
A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye,
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.
The scene was so still, it was all like a vision ;
And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.
But why do the horses snort over their food,
Why screams the blue heron, as hastening away?
Each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over?
"Tis all an illusion; the lamp let us trim;
Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown; The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim,
And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone. Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away ? Why fixed every form like a statue of clay?
Say, whence is that noise and that horrible clamour? Oh, heavens! it comes from the marriage bedchamber.
Oh, haste thee, Strath-Allan, Glen-Ogle, away,
The tumult is o'er; not a murmur nor groan; What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon? 'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly alone,
Who hies him away by the light of the moon. All prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found, The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground; Her features distorted, her colour the clay, Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away.
Ere morn they returned; but how well had they never They brought with them horror too deep to sustain ; Returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever,
To harrow the bosom and fever the brain. List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;Oh, sweet is the path of devotion and duty! When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death, And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.
A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east,
Haughty and grave, and purse-proud, being rich, A governor or general at least,
I have forgotten which,
Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went to India in his patron's suite;
A lad of decent parts and good repute;
Obscured his merit.
One day at table, flushed with pride and wine,
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
"Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father earn his livelihood?"
"He was a saddler, Sir," Modestus said,
And pray, Sir, why didn't your father make
Each parasite, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said, craving pardon if too free he made, "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade."
"My father's trade!-Why, Sir, that's too bad,
My father's trade! Why, blockhead, art thou mad!
My father, Sir, did never stoop so low,
"Pray, Sir, why did not then your father make, A gentleman of you?"
CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG.
ADIEU, adieu !—my native shore
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
A few short hours, and he will rise
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall-
Come hither, hither, my little page,
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
"For I have from my father gone,
And have no friend save these alone,
"My father blessed me fervently,
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make ?"
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,