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Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,

This dark and stormy water ? " “O! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

“And fast before her father's men, • Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood—would stain the heather.

“His horsemen-hard behind us ride ;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride,

When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy, Highland wight,

“I'll go my chief— I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady.

“ And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger, shall not tarry: .
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this, the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“ O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries ;

“ Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.

The boat has left the stormy land,

A stormy sea before her -
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they rowed, amidst the roar

Of waters, fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reached the fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade

His child-he did discover ;
One lovely hand-she stretched for aid,

And one—was round her lover.

“Come back ! come back !” he cried in grief,

Across the stormy water : And I'll forgive your Highland chief :

My daughter! oh, my daughter !"

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return, or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.



“Why art thou weeping, sister?

Why is thy cheek so pale ?
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me

What is it thou dost ail ?

“I know thy will is froward,

Thy feelings warm and keen,
And that that Augustus Howard

For weeks has not been seen.

“I know how much you loved him;

But I know thou dost not weep
For him ;—for though his passion be,

His purse is no-ways deep.

“ Then tell me why those tear-drops ?

What means this woeful mood ?
Say, has the tax-collector

Been calling, and been rude ?

“ Or has that hateful grocer,

The slave ! been here to-day?
Of course he had, by morrow's noon,

A heavy bill to pay?
“ Come, on thy brother's bosom

Unburden all thy woes;
Look up, look up, sweet sister ;

Nay, sob not through thy nose.”
“Oh John, 'tis not the grocer

For his account; although
How ever he is to be paid,

I really do not know.
“ 'Tis not the tax-collector;

Though by his fell command
They've seized our old paternal clock,

And new umbrella-stand !
“ Nor that Augustus Howard,

Whom I despise almost,
But—the soot's come down the chimney, John,
And fairly spoiled the roast !"



DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty! thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature herself shall change : no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven ! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me

-I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood he had seen no sun, no moon,

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