Then from its bowels burst amain The sheeted flame and sounding rain, And by the bolts in thunder borne, The heaven's own breast and mountain torn; The wild roe from the forest driven; The oaks of ages peeled and riven; Instead of arms or golden crest, When o'er her mellow notes he ran, Then first was noted in his eyep A gleam of native energy. Old David. THE TENTH BARD'S SONG. Old David rose ere it was day, And climbed old Wonfell's wizard brae; As fixed he stood, in sullen scorn, Regardless of the streaks of morn, Old David spied, on Wonfell cone, A fairy band come riding on. A lovelier troop was never seen; Their steeds were white, their doublets green, Their faces shone like opening morn, At every flowing mane was hung A silver bell that lightly rung; That sound, borne on the breeze away, Oft set the mountaineer to pray. Old David crept close in the heath, Scarce moved a limb, scarce drew a breath; But as the tinkling sound came nigh, Old David's heart beat wonderous high. He thought of riding on the wind; Of leaving hawk and hern behind; Of sailing lightly o'er the sea, Of lighting torches at the moon; Or through the sounding spheres to sing, Borne on the fiery meteor's wing; Of dancing 'neath the moonlight sky; Of sleeping in the dew-cup's eye. And then he thought-O! dread to tell!— Of tithes the fairies paid to hell! David turned up a reverend eye No word, save one, could David say; Scarce will a Scotsman yet regard What David saw, and what he heard. He heard their horses snort and tread, And every word the rider said; While green portmanteaus, long and low, Lay bended o'er each saddle bow. A lovely maiden rode between, Whom David judged the Fairy Queen; But strange! he heard her moans resound, And saw her feet with fetters bound. Fast spur they on through bush and brake; To Ettrick woods their course they take. Old David followed still in view, Till near the Lochilaw they drew ; Where wandering sun-beam never fell, Its rampart was the tangling sloe, The bending briar, and misletoe; And o'er its roof, the crooked oak Waved wildly from the frowning rock. This wonderous bower, this haunted dell, The forest shepherd shunned as hell! Came on the evening breezes borne, |