His care to evince for his thirsty Prince, Which the King now disdain'd, while a spring remain'd So cooling before his view. That instant up the hill he sends him to fill For before his eyes on the summit there lies All dreadful to see, by the spring lay he, There were spread forth his claws, and fast from his jaws The poisonous foam did flow, The venom sure to kill, was mix'd with the rill, The servant comes pale, and relates the tale The flagon he took, while with horror he shook, The attendant surveys, with grief and amaze, Then the King told with pain, how the Bird he had slain In a moment by passion misled; That creature whose love so ardently strove With many a pang he mourn'd for Zimfrang, From that sad day did Allanberg allay THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE. Supposed to be sung by a Girl tenderly attached to him. ALEXANDER PARK. OH! take me to yon lonely grave, For there, alas! the Minstrel sleeps, Round his cold bed the virgin fays, Beneath the moonbeam's silvery light, Shall chant, in softest strains, his praise, Till morn shall part the veil of night. And while from brake or shadowy bower And round his tomb their fragrance fling. Oft by yon aged beech's side His lay has charm'd the village maid; Then shone that eye in youthful pride, Which death's dark shadows now invade. But, ah! to me how sweet the strain, His eye's bright beam was soon o'ercast- His tomb I'll deck with choicest flowers, Then take me to his lonely grave; Though dark and dreary be the hour, And o'er my head the wild winds rave, I'll feel not their relentless power! THE MUFFLED DRUM. MAYNE. Ан, me! how mournful, wan, and slow, Advancing to the house of prayer, Still sadder flows the dolesome strain; Ev'n Industry forgets her care, And joins the melancholy train! O! after all the toils of war, How blest the brave man lays him down!. His bier is a triumphal car His grave is glory and renown! What though no friends, nor kindred dear, And every hero is his friend! See Love and Truth all woe-begone, Again the trumpet slowly sounds The soldier's last funereal hymn- The gen'rous steed which late he rode, And follows to his last abode, The Warrior who returns no more! For him far hence a Mother sighs, DONALD AND FLORA. MACNEILL. WHEN merry hearts were gay, Poor Flora slipp'd away Sadd'ning to Mora; Loose flow'd her golden hair, She vented her sorrow! "Loud howls the stormy west, Twice twelve long months are o'er You promis'd to fight no more, But meet me in Mora." "Where now is Donald dear ?" To his lov'd Flora ?" "Come then, O come away! Donald, no longer stay! Where can my rover stray From his lov'd Flora? Ah! sure he ne'er can be False to his vows and me; Oh, Heaven! Is not yonder he Bounding o'er Mora ?" "Never, oh! wretched fair!" Meet his lov'd Flora! |