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Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,
Silent and sad—the Minstrel sat,
He was old—yet he loved his native land,
The winds of heaven died away,
The Minstrel leaned on his olden harp,
In youth he had stood by the Wallace side,
When Edward vowed, with his English host,
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,
And sigh to the mountain gale!
The bell had tolled the midnight hour,
The cheerless yew-tree marked the spot
With soft and trembling steps the maid
A tear-drop glistened on her cheek,
Cold blew the blast, the yew-tree shook,
The wandering moon had sunk to rest,
Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,
While oft she pressed her lover's grave,
THE DYING SOLDIER.
Day faded from the hill and wood,
Around a rayless night was spread;
The dying and the dead.
Where echoed late the trump and drum;
Their death-knell,—«11 was dumb.
Here, 'midst his brave, but perished band,
With ghastly wound, and broken brand,
A dying warrior lay.
To kneel her parting love beside,
And stay life's ebbing tide.
He lay beside the gushing spring,
That from its fount in freshness burst;
A drop to cool that thirst,
Fierce as the Simoom burning sigh;
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—
And scenes he ne'er may see again,
Break o'er his dying brain.
While victory sends her deafening shout,
Through streets that madden with the din;
Then beauty droops within.
And sorrow's dreary vigil keeps;
Their widowed mother weeps.
John Malcolm, Esq,
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
His sword and plume are on his pall,
And gathering tears are seen to fall,
They lay him in his dreamless bed,
The requiem of the glorious dead