From love, from friends and kindred torn, Restless with grief, at op'ning day Ah fate relentless! thus to cheat With baneful lure and treach'rous smile! Lur'd by the light that gleams afar, And guide to pity's sheltʼring breast! Quick from his grasp the falchion flies As Col each opening arm extends; 'Approach, ill fated youth!' he cries, 'Here-here are none but suff'ring friends! Like thee, we hail'd the matin song, Why starts the youth? approach; draw near, "Tis all that's left!-my Harp so dear First pale, then crimson grew his cheek, A name which oft had charm'd his ear, Long had he nurs'd the kindling flame, And forc'd the tend'rest pair to part. Torn hapless thus from all he lov'd, Oft had he brav'd the tempest's war, Oft lonely steer'd by some faint star Oft, oft uncertain whether driven, Or near some rock, or breaker borne ; He'd quit his helm to guiding heaven, And sigh his cheerless lot till morn! Oft had the wild heath been his bed, On some lone hill, or craggy steep; i While light'nings flash'd around his head, And eagles scream'd his woes asleep. Thus pass'd his wandering life away, Ah! little thought he while he strove "Why starts the youth ?-approach-draw near; Behold the wreck of storm and wave!'Tis all that's left?-my harp so dear I burn'd, that fair one's life to save!' A glance from Mora's speaking eye Half calm'd the fond youth's lab'ring breast, The tale goes round-the bleak winds sigh, And Col mistrustless sinks to rest. Ah! how could cold distrust possess To love-false fair one! and to you The morn arose with aspect drear, From Kilda's cliff that towers on high, And while the big tear fills each eye, 'O most ungrateful of thy kind! And most unjust to love and me !— O woman! woman! light as wind, I'll ne'er burn Harp again for thee!' DONALD AND FLORA. A BALLAD, ON THE DEATH OE A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA-1778. WHEN many hearts were gay, Sadd'ning to Mora.* Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Loud howls the stormy west, Haste then, O Donald, haste! Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, Where now is Donald dear?' Maids cry with taunting sneer; Say is he still sincere A retreat so named by the Lovers. |