His master he loved not, obeyed with a scowl,

Scarce smothered his hate, and his rancour of soul;

When challenged, his eye and his colour would change,

His proud bosom nursing and planning revenge.

V.

Matilda, ah! woe that the wild rose's dye,

Shed over thy maiden cheek, caused thee to rue! O! why was the sphere of thy love-rolling eye

Inlaid with the diamond, and dipt in the dew? Thy father's sole daughter; his hope, and his care; The child of his age, and the child of his prayer; And thine was the heart that was gentle and kind, And light as the feather, that sports in the wind.

VI.

To her home from the Lowlands, Matilda returned; All fair was her form, and untainted her mind. Young Kennedy saw her, his appetite burned

As fierce as the moor-flame impelled by the wind.

Was it love? No; the ray his dark soul never knew,

That spark which eternity burns to renew.

"Twas the flash of desire, kindled fierce by revenge,

Which savages

feel the brown desert that range.

VII.

Sweet woman! too well is thy tenderness known ;
Too often deep sorrow succeeds thy love-smile;
Too oft, in a moment, thy peace overthrown,—
Fair butt of delusion, of passion, and guile!
What heart will not bleed for Matilda so gay,
To art and to long perseverance a prey?

Why sings yon scared blackbird in sorrowful mood?

Why blushes the daisy deep in the green-wood?

VIII.

Sweet woman! with virtue, thou'rt lofty, thou'rt free;
Yield that, thou'rt a slave, and the mark of disdain :

No blossom of spring is beleaguered like thee,

Though brushed by the lightning, the wind, and the rain,

Matilda is fallen! With tears in her eye,
She seeks her destroyer; but only can sigh.
Matilda has fallen, and sorrow her doom,-
The flower of the valley is nipt in the bloom.

IX.

Ah! Kennedy, vengeance hangs over thine head!
Escape to thy native Glengary forlorn.

Why art thou at midnight away from thy bed?

Why quakes thy big heart at the break of the morn?

Why chatters yon Magpie on gable so loud?

Why flits

yon light vision in gossamer shroud?

How came yon white doves from the window to fly,
And hover on weariless wing to the sky?

X.

Yon Pie is the prophet of terror and death:
O'er Abel's green arbour that omen was given.
Yon pale boding phantom, a messenger wraith;

Yon doves two fair angels commissioned of Heaven.

The sun is in state, and the reapers in motion;

Why were they not called to their morning devotion ? Why slumbers Macdougal so long in his bed?

Ah! pale on his couch the old chieftain lies dead!

XI.

Though grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies, That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep; The soul, when released from her lingering ties,

In secret may see if their sorrows are deep. Who wept for the worthy Macdougal ?—Not one!

His darling Matilda, who, two months agone,

Would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme,

Indulged in a painful delectable dream.

XII.

But, why do the matrons, while dressing the dead,

Sit silent, and look as if something they knew? Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head, And point at the bosom so dappled and blue?

Say, was there foul play?-Then, why sleeps the red thunder?

Ah! hold, for Suspicion stands silent with wonder.
The body's entomb'd, and the green turf laid over,—
Matilda is wed to her dark Highland løver.

XIII.

Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle,
And shed her light dews on a father's new grave,
Beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil,

And lighted the bride to her chamber at eve:

Blue, blue was the heaven; and, o'er the wide scene,
A vapoury silver veil floated serene,

A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye

Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie.

XIV.

The scene was so still, it was all like a vision;

The lamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever. "Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision;

And nothing was heard but the rush of the river.