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THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.

They lighted a taper at dead of night,

And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright—

Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the Lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapped at her window-board,
To tell of her warrior's doom!

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray

For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,

Since the warning of God is here;
For nightmare rides on my strangled sleep:

The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his Country weep
For Wallace of Elderslie!

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower

Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon-light looked dim and red

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping there was when his bosom bled—
And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear

Was true to that knight forlorn,
And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer

At the blast of the hunter's horn;
When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field

With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native tend; For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield— And the sword that seemed fit for Archangel to wield Was light in his terrible hand!

Yet bleeding and bound, «h©' the Wallace wight

For his long-loved country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to' a braver knight

Than, William of Elderslie!

But the day of his glory shall never depart;

His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed;
From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;
Tho' the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,
A nobler was never embalmed!

. . . . Campbell.

THE DYING FATHER TO HIS DAUGHTER.

.. )'
To me, my sweet Kathleen, the Benshee has cried,

And I die—ere to-morrow I die,—
This rose thou hast gathered, and laid by my side,

Will live, my child, longer than I.
My days they are gone, like a tale that is told,

Let me bless thee, and bid thee adieu;
For never to father, when feeble and old,

Was daughter so kind and so true.

Thou hast walked by my side, and my board thou hast spread, • \_\ . . . i;,'. t. .. ' .i•ii•. . .' .;." . .

For my chair the warm corner hast found .,, K)

And told my dull ear what the visitor said,

When I saw that the laughter went round.

Thou hast succoured me still, and my meaning exjiH

When memory was lost on its way; i

Thou hast pillowed my head ere I laid it to rest,

Thou art weeping beside me to-day.

, ..,...i '|iiI .'

O Kathleen, my love I thou couldst choose tht. good

And more than thy duty hast done;
Go now to thy Dermot, be clasped to his heart,

He merits the love he has won.
Be duteous and tender to him, as to me;

Look up to the mercy-seat then;
And passing this shadow of death, which I see,:

Come, come to my arms back again.

Professor £myi

.1 . . .-. h *j ...'.' ..i

A RUINED FEMALE',

Take one example, one of female wo.
Loved by a father; and a mother's love,
In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light
Of heart, so good, and young, that scarce•....
The eye could credit, but would doubt, as sh*
• Did stoop to pull the lily or the rose '-' .

From morning's dew, if it reality

Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw,

In imagery of perfect womanhood.

But short her bloom—her happiness was short.

One saw her loveliness, and with desire

Unhallowed, burning, to her ear addressed

Dishonest words: 'Her favour was his life,

His heaven; her frown his wo, his night, his death/

With turpid phrase thus wove in flattery's loom,

He on her womanish nature won, and age

Suspicionless, and ruined, and forsook:

For he a chosen villain was at heart,

And capable of deeds that durst not seek

Repentance. Soon her father saw her shame;

His heart grew stone, he drove her forth to want

And wintry winds, and with a horrid curse

Pursued her ear, forbidding all return.

Upon a hoary cliff that watched the sea

Her babe was found—dead: on its little cheek,

The tear that nature bade it weep, had turned

An ice-drop, sparkling, in the morning beam;

And to the turf its helpless hands were frozen:

For she—the woful mother, had gone mad,

And laid it down, regardless of its fate

And of her own. Yet had she many days

Of sorrow in the world, but never wept.

She lived on alms; and carried in her hand

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