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THE Forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby:

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees,

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the bard in fitful mood;

His song was louder than the blast,

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days!

For the midnight is on the heath,


And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:

[This poem was first published in the "English Minstrelsy," 2 vols. Edin. 1810.]

The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,'
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung,
When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.3

"Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by
Nor through the pines, with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!

Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,

And Rapine with his iron hand,

Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

"O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in 'song enroll'd, By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;From Coilgach, first who roll'd his car Through the deep ranks of Roman war, To him, of veteran memory dear,

Who victor died on Aboukir.

'The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.

Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

'The Galgacus of Tacitus.

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By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the mighty strain to tell!

For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"

The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years-
"When targets clash'd, and bugles rung,
And blades round warrior's heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty !”


"O, OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind!
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.

"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,

From chasing the King's deer,

Though even an outlaw's wretched state

Might claim compassion here.

1[This, and the two following, were first published in Haydn's Collection of Scottish Airs, vol. ii. Edin. 1806.]


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