The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain.
With head up-rais'd, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly ting'd her cheek with brown,-
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measur'd mood had train'd her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell rais'd its head,
Elastic from her airy tread :

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The list'ner held his breath to hear.
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combin'd
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's cye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
'The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danc'd in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unrevealed,
With maiden pride the maid concealed,
Yet not less purely felt, the flame ;—
Oh need I tell that passion's name!

§ 130. The Harper. WALTER Scott.
As died the sounds upon the tide,
The shallop reached the main-land side.
And ere his onward way he took,
The Stranger cast a lingering look,
Where easily his eye might reach
The harper on the islet beach,
Reclined against a blighted tree,
As wasted, grey, and worn as he.

To minstrel meditation given
His reverend brow was raised to heaven,
As from the rising sun to claim
A sparkle of inspiring flame.
His hand, reclined upon the wire,
Seemed watching the awakening fire;
So still he sate, as those who wait
Till judgment speak the doom of fate,
So still, as if no breeze might dare
To lift one lock of hoary hair;
So still, as life itself were fled,
In the last sound his harp had sped.

131. The Sacrifice. WALTER SCOTT.
'TWAS all prepared ;-and from the rock,
A goat, the patriarch of the flock,
Before the kindling pile was laid,
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade.
Patient the sickening victim eyed
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide,
Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb,
Till darkness glazed his eye-balls dim.
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,
A slender crosslet framed with care,
A cubit's length in measure due,
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.
The cross, thus formed, he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke.
"Woe to the clans-man, who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral yew,
Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew
On Alpine's dwelling low!
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust,
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But, from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clans-man's execration just

Shall doom him wrath and woe."
He paused;-the word the vassals took,
With forward step, and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook ;
And first, in murmur low,

Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse,
"Woe to the traitor, woe!"
Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew,
The joyous wolf from covert drew,
The exulting eagle screamed afar,-
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.
The shout was hush'd on lake and fell,
The Monk resumed his muttered spell.
Dismal and low its accents came,

The while he scathed the Cross with flame.
And the few words that reached the air,
Although the holiest name was there,

Had more of blasphemy than prayer.
But when he shook above the crowd
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud :—
"Woe to the wretch, who fails to rear
At this dread sign the ready spear!
For, as the flames this symbol sear,
His home the refuge of his fear,

A kindred fate shall know;
Far o'er its roof the volumed flame
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim,
While maids and matrons on his name
Shall call down wretchedness and shame,
And infamy and woe."-
Then rose the cry of females, shrill
As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill,
Denouncing misery and ill,
Mingled with childhood's babbling trill
Of curses stammered slow;
Answering, with imprecation dread,
"Sunk be his home in embers red!
And cursed be the meanest shed
That e'er shall hide the houseless head,
We doom to want and woe!"
A sharp and shrieking echo gave,
Coir-Uaiskin, thy goblin cave!
And the grey pass where birches wave,
On Beala-nam-bo.

Then deeper paused the priest anew,
And hard his laboring breath he drew,
While, with set teeth and clenched hand
And eyes that glowed like fiery brand,
He meditated curse more dread,
And deadlier, on the clansman's head,
Who, summoned to his Chieftain's aid,
The signal saw and disobeyed.

The crosslet's points of sparkling wood,
He quenched among the bubbling blood,
And, as again the sign he reared,
Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard:
"When flits this cross from man to man,
Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan,
Burst be the ear that fails to heed!
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed!
May ravens tear the careless eyes,
Wolves make the coward heart their prize!
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth,
So may his heart's blood drench this hearth!
As dies in hissing gore the spark,
Quench thou his light, Destruction dark!
And be the grace to him denied,
Bought by this sign to all beside !”—
He ceased: no echo gave again
The murmur of the deep Amen.

§ 132. The Wedding. WALTER SCOTT.

A BLITHSOME rout, that morning tide,
Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride.
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave
To Norman, heir of Armandave,
And, issuing from the Gothic arch,
The bridal now resum'd their march.
In rude, but glad procession, came
Bonnetted sire and coif-clad dame;
VOL. V. Nos. 81 & 82.

And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, Which snooded maiden would not hear; And children, that, unwitting why, Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; And minstrels, that in measure vied Before the young and bonny bride, Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose. With virgin step, and bashful hand, She held the kerchief's snowy band; The gallant bridegroom, by her side, Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her car Was closely whispering word of cheer. Who meets them at the church-yard gate?The messenger of fear and fate! Haste in his hurried accent lies, And grief is swimming in his eyes. All dripping from the recent flood, Panting and travel-soiled he stood, The fatal sign of fire and sword Held forth, and spoke the appointed word; "The muster-place is Lanrick mead, Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed !"And must he change so soon the hand, Just linked to his by holy band, For the fell cross of blood and brand? And must the day, so blithe that rose, And promised rapture in the close, Before its setting hour, divide The bridegroom from the plighted bride? O fatal doom!-it must! it must! Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, Her summons dread, brooks no delay; Stretch to the race-away! away! Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, Until he saw the starting tear Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; Then trusting not a second look, In haste he sped him up the brook, Nor backward glanced till on the heath Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. -What in the racer's bosom stirred? The sickening pang of hope deferred, And memory, with a torturing train Mingled with love's impatience, came Of all his morning visions vain. The manly thirst of martial fame; The stormy joy of mountaineers, Ere yet they rush upon the spears; And zeal for clan and chieftain burning, And hope, from well-fought field returning, With war's red honors on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast, Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, Like fire from flint he glanc'd away, While high resolve, and feeling strong, Burst into voluntary song.

[come there

XXXIV. No more of death and dying pang, No more of trump and bugle clang, Though through the sounding woods Banner and bugle, trump and drum. Armed with such powers as well had freed Young Redmond at his utmost need, And backed with such a band of horse As might less ample powers enforce; Possessed of every proof and sign That gave an heir to Mortham's line, And yielded to a father's arms An image of his Edith's charms,Mortham is come, to hear and see Of this strange morn the history. What saw he ?-not the church's floor, Cumbered with dead and stained with gore; What heard he ?-not the clamorous crowd, That shout their gratulations loud; Redmond he saw, and heard alone, Clasped him, and sobbed, "My son, my son !"

"O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their
sway-

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving
wave;

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,

And danc'd in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play, [way? That thrills the wanderer of that trackless That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight; That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,

The night-breeze freshens-she that day had past

In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast;
Sadly she sate-on high-Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wander'd heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd
away:

She saw not-felt not this-nor dared depart,
Nor deem'd it cold-her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense-
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense!
It came at last-a sad and shatter'd boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they
sought;
[few-
Some bleeding-all most wretched-these the
Scarce knew they how escaped-this all they
knew.

silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : Something they would have said; but seem'd

to fear

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. She saw at once, yet sunk not-trembled not

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, Within that meek fair form, were feelings high,

sied head;

Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish

bed

ter'd-wept

All lost-that softness died not-but it slept