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I meet thy pensive, moonlight face ;
Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,
Too fleeting, and too dear !
Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
Though none is nigh to share ;
And life has nought beside for me
So sweet as this despair.
There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
And mine, methinks, is one;
Or thus I should not weep and wake,
And thou to slumber gone.
I little thought it thus could be
In days more sad and fair-
That earth could have a place for me,
And thou no longer there.
Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
Or make thee less my own :
'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
Than watching here alone. Yet never, never can we part,
While Memory holds her reign : Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart, Till we shall meet again.
H. F. Lyte
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 Ullin'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 hard behind us ride-
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?'
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
I'll go, my chief, I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady :-
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, oh! too strong for human hand
The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
His child he did discover ;-
One lovely hand she stretch'd 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 !—Oh, my daughter !'
'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I cross’d the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow.
"That, Father ! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon !'
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapp'd a faggot-band ;
He plied his work ;-and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time :
She wander'd up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb :
But never reach'd the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.
They wept-and, turning homeward, cried
* In heaven we all shall meet !'
-When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small ;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall :
And then an open field they cross'd :
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came :
They follow'd from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there were none !
-Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind ;
And sings a solitary song,
That whistles in the wind.
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?
Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride : And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen But aye
she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen'-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
* A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;