What heart could bear, what

eye

could meet,

The spirits in their lone retreat!

Rustled again the darksome dell;
Straight on the minstrel's vision fell
A trembling and unwonted light,
That showed the phantoms to his sight.

Came first a slender female form, Pale as the moon in Winter storm; A babe of sweet simplicity

Clung to her breast as pale as she,

And

aye she sung its lullaby.

That cradle-song of the phantom's child,

O! but it was soothing, holy, and wild!

But, O! that

song can ill be sung,

By Lowland bard, or Lowland tongue.

The Spectre's Cradle-Song.

Hush, my bonny babe! hush, and be still!
Thy mother's arms shall shield thee from ill.
Far have I borne thee, in sorrow and pain,
To drink the breeze of the world again.
The dew shall moisten thy brow so meek.
And the breeze of midnight fan thy cheek,
And soon shall we rest in the bow of the hill;
Hush, my bonny babe : hush, and be still!
For thee have I travailed, in weakness and woe,
The world above and the world below.

My heart was soft, and it fell in the snare;
Thy father was cruel, but thou wert fair.

I sinned, I sorrowed, I died for thee;
Smile, my bonny babe! smile on me!

See yon thick clouds of murky hue; Yon star that peeps from its window blue; Above yon clouds, that wander far,

Away, above yon little star,

L

There's a home of peace that shall soon be thine,
And there shalt thou see thy Father and mine.
The flowers of the world shall bud and decay,
The trees of the forest be weeded away;
But there shalt thou bloom for ever and aye.
The time will come, I shall follow thee;
But long, long hence that time shall be;
O weep not thou for thy mother's ill;
Hush, my bonny babe! hush, and be still!

Slow moved she on with dignity,
Nor bush, nor brake, or rock, nor tree,
Her footsteps staid-o'er cliff so bold,
Where scarce the roe her foot could hold,
Stately she wandered, firm and free,
Singing her softened lullaby.

Three naked phantoms next came on; They beckoned low, past, and were gone.

Then came a troop of sheeted dead,

With shade of chieftain at their head.

And with our bard, in brake forlorn,

Held converse till the break of morn.

Their ghostly rites, their looks, their mould,

Or words to man, he never told;

But much he learned of mystery,

Of that was past, and that should be.
Thenceforth he troubles oft divined,

And scarcely held his perfect mind;
Yet still the song, admired when young,
He loved, and that in Court he sung.

The Fate of Macgregor.

THE ELEVENTH BARD'S SONG.

"Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen;

The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ; The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay;

Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowled the Macgregor, then silent and sullen, He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan;

"Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed; The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest."

"Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon; Of riding and running such tidings they bear,

We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here.”—

"The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him,
And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him ;
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind,

Nor ever receded a foot from the van,

of man.

Or blenched at the ire or the prowess
But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all !
An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall—

Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,

To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.