OLD yews in the church-yard are crumbled to dust

Deep shade on her grave-mound once flinging;

But oral tradition, still true to its trust,

Her name by the hearth-stone is singing; For never enshrined by the bard in his lay

Was a being more lovely than Margaret Gray.

Her father, a faithful old tenant, had died
On lands of Sir Thomas the Seer-

And the child who had sprung like a flower by his side,
Sole mourner, had followed his bier;

But Ercildoun's knight to the orphan was kind,
And watched like a parent the growth of her mind.

The wizard knew well that her eye was endowed
With sight mortal vision surpassing-
Now piercing the heart of Oblivion's cloud,

The Past, in its depths, clearly glassing;
Anon sending glance through that curtain of dread
Behind which the realm of the Future lies spread.

Не gave her a key to decipher dim scrolls,
With characters wild, scribbled over;

And taught her dark words that would summon back souls
Of the dead round the living to hover;

Or oped, high discourse with his pupil to hold,

Old books of enchantment with clasps of bright gold.

The elf queen had met her in green, haunted dells
When stars in the zenith were twinkling,
And time kept the tramp of her palfry to bells,
At her bridle rein merrily tinkling:

By Huntley Burn oft, in the gloaming, she strolled
Weird shapes, that were not of this earth, to behold.

One eve came true Thomas to Margaret's bower,
In this wise the maiden addressing-
"No more will I visible be from this hour,
Save to those sight unearthly possessing;

But when I am seen at feast, funeral or fair

Let the mortal who makes revelation beware!"

Long years came and passed, and the Rhymer's dread seat
Was vacant the Eildon Tree under,
And oft would old friends by the ingle-side meet,
And talk of his absence in wonder:

Some thought that, afar from the dwellings of men,
He had died in some lone Highland forest or glen:

But others believed that in bright fairy land
The mighty magician was living-

That newness of life to worn heart and weak hand,
Soft winds and pure waters were giving;

That back to the region of heather and pine Would he come unimpaired by old age or decline.

Astir was all Scotland! from mountain and moor,
With banner folds streaming in air,
Proud lord and retainer, the wealthy and poor,
Thronged forth in their plaids to the fair;
Steeds, pricked by their riders, loud clattering made,
And, cheered by his clansmen, the bag-piper played.

Gay lassies with snoods from the border and hills
In holyday garb hurried thither,
With eyes like the crystal of rock-shaded rills,
And cheeks like the bells of the heather;
But fairest of all, in that goodly array,
Was the Lily of Bemerside, Margaret Gray.

While Ayr with a gathering host overflowed,
She marked with a look of delight

A white-bearded horseman who gallantly rode
On a mettlesome steed black as night,

And cried, forcing wildly her way through the throng, "Oh! master, thy pupil hath mourned for thee long!"

Then, checking his courser, the brow of the seer
Grew dark, through its locks long and frosted,
And making a sign with his hand to draw near,
Thus the lovely offer.der accosted-

"By which of thine eyes was thy master descried?" "With my left I behold thee!" the damsel replied

One moment he gazed on the beautiful face,
In fondness upturned to his own,
As if anger at length to relenting gave place,
Then fixed grew his visage like stone:-
On the violet lid his cold finger he laid,
And extinguished forever the sight of the maid.

NOTE.

I am indebted to Hugh Cameron, Esquire, of Buffalo, N. Y., for this strange and strikingly beautiful legend. Mr. C. informs ine that it has long formed a part of the fire-side lore of his own clan; and, from a remote period, has lived in the memory of Scotland's peasantry.

He expressed surprise that men of antiquarian taste, in compiling border ballads, and tales of enchantment, had not given "Fair Margaret" a conspicuous place in their pages; and at his suggestion I have attempted to clothe the fanciful outlines of the original in the drapery of English verse.

The Eildon tree referred to in the poem was the favorite seat of Thomas the Rhymer, and there he gave utterance to his prophecies.

THE rain-bird shakes her dusty wings

And leaves the sunny strand,

For mossy springs, and sweetly sings, To greet her native land.

The camel in the desert heeds

Where distant waters lay,

And onward speeds, to flowery meads, And fountains far away.

The freshest drops will Beauty choose

To keep her floweret wet,

The purest dews, to save its hues

Her gentle violet.

So-may sweet Grace our hearts renew
With waters from above,

So keep in view what Mercy drew
From this deep well of love.

W. H. DENNY.

kill one of the largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our great Prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo."

The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother, warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero's mother is unknown, but the Indians believe

that it is she who annually sends from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter, excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the red-man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo

Thou ne'er hast known a mother's love,
Save what my heart hath given;
Thy fair young mother-long years since-
Found rest in yonder Heaven.
Where waves and dashing spray ran high
We took thee from her grasp;
All vainly had the Tyrant striven
To rend that loving clasp.

We strove in vain life to recall,

And 'neath the old oak's shade We laid her calmly down to rest, In our own woodland glade. Gently-the turf by stranger hands

Was o'er her bright head pressed;
And burning tears from stranger hearts
Fell o'er that place of rest.

We took thee to our hearts and home,
With blessings on thy head;

We looked on thy blue eye-and wept-
Remembered was our dead.

For parted from our lonely hearth
Was childhood's sunny smile;
And hushed the household melody
That could each care beguile.

Thy name-we knew it not-and then
For many a livelong day

We sought for one, all beautiful-
And, sweetest, called thee May.

With thee-came Spring-time to our home,
Love's wealth of buds and flowers,
Lingering till in its fairy train
Shone Summer's golden hours.

How will I miss thine own dear voice
In Summer's soft, bright eve;

A blight will rest on tree and flower-
The hue of things that grieve;
And when the wintry hour hath come,
And 'round the blazing hearth
Shall cluster faces we have loved-
Lost-lost thy joyous mirth.

Another hand will twine those curls
That gleam so brightly now;
Another heart will thrill to hear
From thee affection's vow;
For I have marked the rosy blush

Steal o'er thy brow and cheek,
When gentle words fell on thy ear,
Which only love can speak.

Tears-tears!-a shadow should not rest

Upon thy bridal day;

My spirit's murmurings shall cease

And joy be thine, sweet May.

They come with flowers-pure orange flowers

To deck thy shining hair;

Young bride-go forth—and bear with thee,

My blessing and my prayer.