It sweetly smil'd in its native bower,

But a cold blast came like the wintry air, Which nipt this sweet and enchanting flower, The lovely Mary of Buttermere.

O! sweet was the hour, that like morning clear,
Rose on this gem so pure and bright,
But saw it steep'd in deep sorrow's tear,
To wither amid the shades of night.
Hope fled from the cheek of roseate hue,

And the lily pale now languish'd there,
And dim look'd the eye, of heavenly blue,
Of the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

For there was a charm, and a witching spell,
That stole her guileless heart away ;
She lov'd, but, alas! she lov'd too well,
And felt a flame that could ne'er decay.
Now wandering the wild, unseen, unknown,
Her sigh is the sigh of sad despair,—
Like the blighted flower in its bower alone,
Is the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

XXIII.

SONG.

AIR." What ails this heart o' mine."

Her kiss was soft and sweet,

Her smiles were free and fain,

And beaming bright the witching glance Of her I thought my ain.

That kiss has poison'd peace,
Her smiles have rous'd despair,
For kindly tho' her glances be
They beam on me nae mair.

Now lonely's every haunt

That I once trode with joy,

And dull and dear the sacred grove

Where we were wont to toy.

The rose can please nae mair,

The lily seems to fade,

And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang

That used to cheer the glade.

This bosom once was gay,
But now a brow of gloom
Pourtrays, in characters of care,
That it is pleasure's tomb.

Yet none shall hear the sigh

That struggles to be free,

No tear shall trace this sallow cheek,

No murmur burst from me.

Tho' silent be my woe,
"Tis not the less severe-

Forlorn I brood on former joys
To love and mem'ry dear.

She minds na o' the vows

That seal'd our youthful love,

But heaven has records that will last, My faith and truth to prove.

XXIV.

DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF,*

Who was executed after the Rebellion.

Son of the mighty and the free,
Lov'd leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?

Oh! hadst thou slumbered with the slain;
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not.

But darkly clos'd thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sun-beams rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,
The watch-word of despair;

Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power,
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line.

* This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman or. reading, immediately after its first appearance, the well-known work entitled Waverley. It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if he should approve, and, under his correction, that it might be inserted in the future editions of that celebrated novel. The individual, however, to whom it was addressed, being wholly unconnected with the work referred to, and having no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged proper,

O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely 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 lov'd scenes may vainly smile,
Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is mingled with the torrent's roar,
Unmark'd the red deer sport around-

Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are clos'd, thy halls are still—
Those halls where swell'd the choral strain-
They hear the wild waves murmuring shrill,
And all is hush'd again.

Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke ;
His fire his joy of song is past ;—

One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,
His saddest and his last.

No other theme to him is dear

Than lofty deeds of thine;

Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear,
Last of a mighty line.

both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal which we conceive it so well calculated to afford.