When through the desert's pathless maze,
His way was as an eagle's course

When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane, delight!

Shall then the warrior tremble now?
Now when his envied strength is o'er?
Hung on the pine his idle bow,

His pirogue useless on the shore?

When death hath dimmed his failing eye,

Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?

Sons of the brave! delay no more,
The spirits of my kindred call;
'T is but one pang, and all is o'er!
Oh! bid the aged cedar fall!

To join the brethren of his prime,
The mighty of departed time.

EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.

SOFT skies of Italy! how richly drest,

Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow;
What glorious hues, reflected from the west,
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow!

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep,
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam;
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain-stream.

Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray,
That still at eve its lofty temple knows;
From rock and torrent fade the tints away,

And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose:
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper-star,
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar.

DİRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN

"WAVERLEY."

SON of the mighty and the free!
High-minded leader of the brave!
Was it for lofty chief like thee,

To fill a nameless grave?

Oh! if, amidst the valiant slain,

The warrior's bier had been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourned thee not.

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!

Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power

Had e'er enobled death like thine,

Then glory marked thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line!

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;

Those beams, that gild thy native walls,

Are sleeping on thy tomb!

Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile-
Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar,
Unmarked the wild deer sport around-

Thou lead'st the chace no more!

Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where pealed the choral strain,
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill—
And all is hushed again.

No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high;

There the tall grass and summer flower,

Unmarked shall spring and die.

No more thy bard, for other ear,

Shall wake the harp once loved by thine

Hushed be the strain thou canst not hear,

Last of a mighty line!

THE CRUSADER'S WAR SONG.

CHIEFTAINS, lead on! our hearts beat high,

Lead on to Salem's towers!

Who would not deem it bliss to die,

Slain in a cause like ours?

The brave who sleep in soil of thine,

Lie not entombed, but shrined, O Palestine;

Souls of the slain in holy war!

Look from your sainted rest!

Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,

To mingle with the blest;

Tell us how short the death-pang's power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train !

Pour forth your loftiest lays;

Each heart shall echo to the strain

Breathed in the warrior's praise.

Bid every string triumphant swell

Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.