The wood, the wind, the billow's moan,

All spoke in language of their own,
But too well to our minstrel known.
Wearied, bewildered, in amaze,
Hymning in heart the Virgin's praise,
A cross he framed, of birchen bough,
And 'neath that cross he laid him low;
Hid by the heath, and Highland plaid,
His old harp in his bosom laid.

O! when the winds that wandered by,
Sung on her breast their lullaby,

How thrilled the tones his bosom through,

And deeper, holier, poured his vow!

No sleep was his-he raised his eye,

To note if dangerous place was nigh. There columned rocks, abrupt and rude,

Hung o'er his gateless solitude:

The muffled sloe, and tangling brier,

Precluded freak or entrance here;

But yonder oped a little path,
O'ershadowed, deep, and dark as death.
Trembling, he groped around his lair
For mountain ash, but none was there.
Teeming with forms, his terror grew;
Heedful he watched, for well he knew,
That in that dark and devious dell,
Some lingering ghost or sprite must dwell:
So as he trowed, so it befel.

The stars were wrapt in curtain gray,

The blast of midnight died away;
"Twas just the hour of solemn dread,
When walk the spirits of the dead.
Rustled the leaves with gentle motion,
Groaned his chilled soul in deep devotion.
The lake-fowl's wake was heard no more;
The wave forgot to brush the shore;
Hushed was the bleat, on moor and hill;
The wandering clouds of heaven stood still.

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,

There's a home of

that shall soon be thine,

peace

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.