"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: "And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore, : Oн, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! He stay❜d not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 66 I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied: The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar - said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near : So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; SCOTT. THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sitting on the style, Mary, On a bright May morning, long ago, The place is little changed, Mary, 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here; But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest; For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But oh, they love the better far, The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, Your's was the brave good heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, I thank you for that patient smile, I bless you for the pleasant word, And I'll think I see that little style, Where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride! HON. MRS. BLACKWOOD. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. DARK is the night! how dark! no light! no fire! For him who pledged her love last year a bride! "Hark! 'tis his footstep! No-'tis past: 'tis gone : "Rest thee, my babe! Rest on! - "Tis hunger's cry! Sleep! for there is no food! the fount is dry! Famine and cold their wearying work have done, My heart must break! And thou!" The clock strikes one. "Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there, he's there, For this! for this he leaves me to despair! Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? "Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain! you, The clock strikes two. |