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Spells of such force no wizard grave
FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
HARP of the North ! that mouldering lung hast
hung On the witch elm that shades St Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep! 'Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep ! Not thus in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. At each according pause was heard aloud
Thine ardent symphony, sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd ;
For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's
O wake once more ! how rude soe'er the hand
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray ; O wake once more! though scarce my skill com.
mand Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touch'd in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
FROM OLD MORTALITY.
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright,
nce then how often hast thou press'd The torrid zone of this wild breast,
Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
Not then this world's wild joys had been
FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE,
HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
To Duncan no morrow !
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
Wails manhood in glory ;
Waft the leaves that are searest,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, (a)
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber !
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and for ever !
LINES APPENDED TO THE LORD OF THE
Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way ;
Go boldly forth ; nor yet thy master blame, Who chose no patron for his humble lay,
And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame.
(a) Or corri. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.
There was and O ! how many sorrows crowd
Into these two brief words!-there was a claim(a) By generous friendship given—had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the
All angel now—yet little less than all,
While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,
Which hid its own, to sooth all other woe; What ’vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: And, least of all, what 'vails the world should
know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither
INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN AT NEW
ART thou a Patriot, Traveller ?—On this field
(a) This is understood to to the Dutchess of Buc. cleuch, who died shortly before the poem appeared.