Young Jock has ta'en the hill for 't,
A waefu' wight is he;

Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for 't,
An' laid him down to dee;
And Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
And learnin fast to pray;-
O, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The young laird o' the Lang Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;
The priest has said-in confidence-
The lassie was divine;

And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than ony priest should say;-
But O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The wailing in our green glen

That day will quaver high,

THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY.

121

BONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hip and the hindberrye,
And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-
tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the green-wood
shaw;

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame!

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;

The laverock frae the sky;

The fairies frae their beds o' dew

Will rise and join the lay,
An' hey! what a day 't will be
When Maggy gangs away?

her e'e,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant

lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless

sea.

For Kilmeny had been she knew not | where,

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.

Kilmeny had been where the cock never

crew,

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew;

But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,

And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she

had seen,

And a land where sin had never been,
A land of love and a land of light,
Withouten sun or moon or night;
Where the river swa'd a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam :
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green-wood there is a waik,
And in that waik there is a wene,
And in that wene there is a maike,
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane;
And down in yon green-wood he walks
his lane.

In that green wene Kilmeny lay,
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay;
But the air was soft, and the silence deep,
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep;
She kend nae mair, nor opened her e'e,
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.
She awaked on a couch of the silk sae
slim,

All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;

And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst had travelled mortal life; And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, "What spirit has brought this mortal here?"

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,

They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair,

And round came many a blooming fere, Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!

"O, would the fairest of mortal kind
Aye keep the holy truths in mind,
That kindred spirits their motions see,
Who watch their ways with anxious e'e,
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!

O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer,

"O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid of the fountain of light; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.

But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed

To warn the living maidens fair,
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care,
That all whose minds unmeled remain
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.

With distant music, soft and deep,
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;
And when she awakened, she lay her lane,
All happed with flowers in the green-wood

wene.

When seven long years were come and fled;

When grief was calm, and hope was dead; When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name,

Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!

And O, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her e'e!
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
And the soft desire of maiden's een
In that mild face could never be seen.
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower,
And her voice like the distant melodye,
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keeped afar frae the haunts of

men;

Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;
The wolf played blithely round the field,
The lordly bison lowed and kneeled;
The dun deer wooed with manner bland,
And cowered aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
O, then the glen was all in motion !
The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their bughts and faulds the
tame,

And goved around, charmed and amazed;
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
And murmured, and looked with anxious
pain

For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the
leveret ran;

123

The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young,

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled ;It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and

gane,

Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; There laid her down on the leaves sae green,

And Kilmeny on earth was never mair

seen.

But O, the words that fell from her mouth

Were words of wonder, and words of truth!

But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead.

It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain;

She left this world of sorrow and pain, And returned to the Land of Thought again.

THOMAS MOORE.

[1779-1852.]

FLY TO THE DESERT.

FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, O, the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
As gracefully and gayly springs
The silvery-footed antelope
As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come, -thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loveliness.

O, there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwellingplace.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

125

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf

on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset

were seen;

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,

But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white

on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!