The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh! too strong for human hand, And still they row'd amid the roar For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, His child he did discover; One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this raging water, And I'll forgive your Highland Chief, "Twas vain! the loud wave lash'd the shore, Return or help preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. CAMPBELL. THE LOST SHILLING. OH! sad and slow his footsteps fell, And fast his tears were flowing. While sadly follow'd at his heel, A rough-hair'd cur, and seem'd to feel "Now, bonny boy, what makes thee cry?" "Oh! bitter fears torment me: In yonder town, her food to buy, "And now to see her face I dread,From anger naught can save me ; For, oh! I lost, as on I sped, The shilling which she gave me." "That sure can ne'er a fault be styled, "Oh no, Sir, no! if blows be all, To bear them I'd be willing, Though hard those blows, as arm could fall; "And hard will be her fare to-day, And hard her fast to-morrow; And when she hungers, sure she'll say, "Twas I who caused her sorrow!" "Now hush your sighs, and dry your tears,— A doubting hope illumed his eyes, "Twas his-he fled with eager pace, But, oh! the smile which deck'd his face M. G. LEWIS. THE WILD HUNTSMEN. THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn; And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the briar, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallow'd day Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd. But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Who was each stranger, left and right, The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He wav'd his huntsman's cap on high, "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," "To-day th' ill-omen'd chase forbear; Yon bell yet summons to the fane: To-day the warning Spirit hear, To-morrow thou may'st mourn in vain.” Away, and sweep the glades along!" The sable hunter hoarse replies; "To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, |