This night the proud chief his presumption shall ruc,
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue:
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,

When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:

It faded—it darken'd — he shudder'd―he sigh'd— "No! not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone;
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oar'd the broad Lomond, so still and serene!
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curl'd,
And rock'd them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching,
The moon the blue zenith already was touching;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,

No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill;

Young Malcolm at distance crouch'd trembling the whileMacgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream,
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom,
The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom;
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast,
Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity stay'd;

She wimpled the water to weather and lee,

And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.
Mate nature was roused in the bounds of the glen,
The wild deer of Gairtney abandon'd his den,

Fled panting away, over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke,
As slumbering he dozed in the shelf of the rock
Astonish'd, to hide in the moon-beam he flew,
And screw'd the night-heaven till lost in the blue.

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch.
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain,
As begging for something he could not obtain;
She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side;

"Macgregor Macgregor!" he bitterly cried;

Macgregor Macgregor!" the echoes replied. He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream: But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain.— They reach'd the dark lake, and bore lightly away; Macgregor is vanish'd for ever and aye!

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN.

THE sun's last ray was glowing fair,

On crag, and tree, and flood;
And fell in mellow softness where

The lonely Indian stood.

HOGG.

Beneath his eye, in living gold,
The broad Pacific lay;

Unruffled there, a skiff might hold,
Its bright and fearless way.

Far! far! behind him, mountains blue,
In shadowy distance melt,

And far beyond the dark woods grew,
Where his forefathers dwelt!

No breathing sound was in the air,
As, leaning on his bow,

A lone and weary pilgrim there,
He murmur'd stern and low:

"Far by Ohio's mighty river,
Bright star, I've worshipp'd thee!
My native stream-its bosom never
The Red Man more may see!

The Paleface rears his wigwam where

Our Indian hunters roved;

His hatchet fells the forest fair
Our Indian maidens loved :

A thousand warriors bore in war
The token of my sires:

On all the hills were seen afar,
Their blazing council fires!

The foeman heard their war-whoop shrill,

And held his breath in fear;

And in the wood, and on the hill,

Their arrows pierced the deer.

Where are they now?-the stranger's tread

Is on their silent place!

Yon fading light on me is shed,

The last of all my race!

Where are they now?-in Summer's light
Go! seek the Winter's snow;
Forgotten is our name and might,
And broken is our bow!

r

BRYANT.

GINEVRA.

Ir ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket but 'tis not the true one
Stop at a palace near the Reggis-gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains statues cypresses,
Will long detain you but before you go,
Enter the house forget it not, I pray youl
And look awhile upon a picture there↓

"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family,

Done by Zampieri but by whom I care not.
He, who observes itere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,{

Her lips half opens and her finger up! /

As though she said, ' Beware!P'— her vest of gold/ Broidered with flowers and clasped from_head\to foot,( ~{ An emerald stone in every golden clasp,

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely yet so arch, so full of mirth!>
(The overflowings of an innocent heart)
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled
Like some wild melody