Only croquet? Never trust to the game, Now is their magic enchainment complete; LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries," Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry." "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. My blood would stain the heather. "And by my word! the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men, Their trampling sounded nearer. "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,When, O! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, One lovely hand she stretched for aid, “Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, "T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child,— THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ο GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. H! what's the matter?-what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill, That evermore his teeth they chatter Chatter, chatter, chatter still? Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July, "Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, "Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still! Young Harry was a lusty drover— And who so stout of limb as he? Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling, It would not pay for candle-light. On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she poor woman— housed alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day; Then at her door the canty dame Would sit, as any linnet gay. But when the ice our streams did fetter, And then for cold not sleep a wink! The winds at night had made a rout, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And to the fields his road would take; And there at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble-land. He hears a noise! - he's all awake! Again!— on tiptoe down the hill He softly creeps. "Tis Goody Blake! She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! Right glad was he when he beheld her! Stick after stick did Goody pull; He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The byway back again to take, He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake; And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast; And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you, then, at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, Oh, may he never more be warm!' He went complaining all the morrow N part these nightly terrors to dispel, Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, And through the unbroken stillness of the night Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. With sauntering steps he climbs the distant stile, Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; There views the white-robed clouds in clusters driven, And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven; Low, on the utmost boundary of the sight, The rising vapors catch the silver light; Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. IVE years have passed; five summers with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters rolling from their mountain- With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. LOCHINVAR'S RIDE. YOUNG Lochinvar has come out of the West! Through all the wild border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; The bride had consented,-the gallant came late; So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,— "I long wooed your daughter;-my suit you denied: The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up: |