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Fled panting away, oyer river and isle,
Nor once turn'd his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.
The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke,
As slumbering he dozed in the shelf of the rock:
Astonish'd, to hide in the moon-beam he flew,
And screw'd the night-heaven till lost in the blue.
Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.
Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;
"Macgregor! Macgregor!" he bitterly cried;
"Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied.
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem,
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream:
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain
Were groans from a bosom in hofror and pain.—
They reach'd the dark lake, and bore lightly away;
Macgregor is vanish'd for ever and aye!
Beneath his eye, in living gold,
The broad Pacific lay;
Unruffled there, a skiff might hold,
Its bright and fearless way.
Far! far! behind him, mountains blue,
In shadowy distance melt,
And far beyond the dark woods grew,
Where his forefathers dwelt!
No breathing sound was in the air,
As, leaning on his bow,
A lone and weary pilgrim there,
He murmur'd stern and low:
"Far by Ohio's mighty river,
Bright star, I've worshipp'd thee! My native stream — its bosom never
The Red Man more may see!
The Paleface rears his wigwam where
Our Indian hunters roved; His hatchet fells the forest fair
Our Indian maidens loved:
A thousand warriors bore in war,
The token of my sires:
On all the hills were seen afar,
Their blazing council fires!
The foeman heard their war-whoop shrill,
And held his breath in fear; And in the wood, and on the hill,
Their arrows pierced the deer.
Where are they now ? — the stranger's tread
Is on their silent place!
Yon fading light on me is shed,
The last of all my race! ^~
Where are they now? — in Summer's light
Go! seek the Winter's snow; Forgotten is our name and might,
And broken is our bow!
The White Man came, his bayonets gleam,
Where Sachems held their sway; And like the shadow of a dream,
Our tribe has pass'd away!
Cursed be their race! to faith untrue!
_False heart I deceitful tongue! — Hear me, O evil Manitou —
Revenge the Indian's wrong!
I hear him in the hollow moan
Of the dark heaving sea;
And whispers murmur in the tone,
Of vengeance yet to be!
What if no stone shall mark the spot
Where lonely sleep the brave? Their mighty arm is unforgot,
Their glory has no grave!
But to our foes we leave a shame —
Disgrace can never die;
Their sons shall blush to hear a name,
Still blackened with a lie!
So be it ever to their race,
False friends, and bitter cares!
By fraud they have the Indian's place,
The Indian's curse be theirs!"
Ir ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other relics you may see
-l\assoni’s bucket- but ’tis not the tme one -
Stop at a palace near the Reggis-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you - but before you go,
Enter the house - forget it not, I pray you -
And look awhile upon a picture there.
’Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The lastof that illustrious family,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it- ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, “ Beware !”- her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp,
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart -
It haunts me still, tho’ many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest half eaten by the worm,
Bnt richly carved by Anthony of Trent,
With scripture stories from the life of Christ.
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That by the way — it may be true or false —
But dont forget the picture, and you will not
When you have heard the tale they told me there: —
She was an only child — her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour,
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love I"
And fill'd his glass to all — but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;