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Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,
The loved—the lost—to thy embraces press;
Come, where the Saviour who has died to save,
Lives—loves—and reigns eternally to bless!



Silent and sad—the Minstrel sat,
And thought on the days of yore;

He was old—yet he loved his native land,
Though his harp could charm no more!

The winds of heaven died away,
And the moon in the valley slept;

The Minstrel leaned on his olden harp,
And o'er its strains he wept!

In youth he had stood by the Wallace side,
And sung in King Robert's hall;

When Edward vowed, with his English host,
Scotland to hold in thrall.

Bat the Wallace wight was dead and gone,

And Robert was on his deathbed; And dark was the hall where the Minstrel sung

Of chiefs that for Scotia bled!

But oft as the twilight stole o'er the steep,

And the woods of his native vale,
Would the Minstrel wake his harp to weep,

And sigh to the mountain gale!

R. Allan.


The bell had tolled the midnight hour,
Monimia sought the shade;

The cheerless yew-tree marked the spot
Where Leontine was laid.

With soft and trembling steps the maid
Approached the drear abode;

A tear-drop glistened on her cheek,
And dewed her lover's sod!


Cold blew the blast, the yew-tree shook,
And sighed with hollow moan;

The wandering moon had sunk to rest,
And faint the twilight shone.

Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,
Dewed with the tear of sorrow,

While oft she pressed her lover's grave,
Nor waked with dawn of morrow.

It. Allan.


Day faded from the hill and wood,

Around a rayless night was spread;
It closed above a scene of blood,

The dying and the dead.
And silence brooded o'er the field,

Where echoed late the trump and drum;
And where a thousand thunders pealed

Their death-knell,—«11 was dumb.

Here, 'midst his brave, but perished band,
Upon a midnight couch of clay,

With ghastly wound, and broken brand,

A dying warrior lay.
No fond and faithful one was there

To kneel her parting love beside,
To staunch his death-wound with her hair,

And stay life's ebbing tide.

He lay beside the gushing spring,

That from its fount in freshness burst;
But helping hand was none to bring

A drop to cool that thirst,
Which scorches in the parting breath,

Fierce as the Simoom burning sigh;
And adds to bitterness of death

Its fiery agony.

E'en then on memory's wakeful eye

Would forms of children, wife, and friend, Fair as a vision of the sky,

In rainbow beauty blend—
A dream of summer, love, and youth,

And scenes he ne'er may see again,
In all the glowing tints of truth

Break o'er his dying brain.


While victory sends her deafening shout,

Through streets that madden with the din;
And all is reckless mirth without,

Then beauty droops within.
She clasps her babes with sob and sigh,

And sorrow's dreary vigil keeps;
Her orphans gaze, and wonder why

Their widowed mother weeps.

John Malcolm, Esq,


His sword and plume are on his pall,
The muffled drum beats drear and deep;

And gathering tears are seen to fall,
From warriors' eyes unused to weep.

They lay him in his dreamless bed,
The banners droop above the brave;

The requiem of the glorious dead
Thrice rolls in thunder o'er his grave.

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