VII. Now joy, old England, raise! While the wine cup shines in light; By thy wild and stormy steep, VIII. Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles Of the brave! LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, *Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water!"— "Oh I'm the chief Of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, It is not for your silver bright, "And by my word! the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, By this the storm grew loud apace, * The water wraith was shrieking;* But still as wilder blew the wind, *The evil spirit of the waters. K "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, When oh! too strong for human hand, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 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!-oh my daughter!"— "Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child And he was left lamenting. LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead: They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rushed into her sire's embrace: On India's citron-covered isles : More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne But howling Winter fled afar, Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, |