To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay,
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave.
Oh, 't is sweet to a heart unentangled and light, When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest,
To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest.
ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE.
(Written in her twelfth year.)
Star of England! Brunswick's pride! Thou hast suffer'd, droop'd, and died ! Adversity, with piercing eye, Bade all her arrows round thee fly; She marked thee from thy cradle-bed, And plaited thorns around thy head! As the moon, whom sable clouds Now brightly shows - now darkly shrouds So envy, with a serpent's eye, And slander's tongue of blackest dye, On thy pure name aspersions cast, And triumph'd o'er thy fame at last! But each dark tale of guilt and shame Shall darker fly to whence it came! A stranger in a foreign land, Oppress'd beneath a tyrant's hand, She drank the bitter cup of woe, And read Fate's black'ning volume through! The last, the bitterest drop was drank, The volume closed and all was blank!
DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. *****
I saw her when life's tide was high,
When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow,
When joy was dancing in her eye,
And her cheek blush'd hope's crimson glow.
I saw her 'mid a fairy throng,
She seem'd the gayest of the gay;
I saw her lightly glide along,
'Neath beauty's smile, and pleasure's lay.
I saw her in her bridal robe,
The blush of joy was mounting high;
I mark'd her bosom's heaving throb,
I mark'd her dark and downcast eye.
I saw her when a mother's love,
Ask'd at her hand a mother's care;
She look'd an angel from above,
Hov'ring round a cherub fair.
I saw her not till cold and pale,
She slumber'd on death's icy arm;
The rose had faded on her cheek,
Her lip had lost its power to charm.
That eye was dim which brightly shone;
That brow was cold, that heart was still
The witch'ries of that form had flown
The lifeless clay had ceas'd to feel.
I saw her wedded to the grave;
Her bridal robes were weeds of death
And o'er her pale, cold brow, was hung
The damp sepulchral icy wreath.
THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing,
Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splash-
The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream,
As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream;
Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze
Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees.
The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode
Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad;
Lo! the black thunder-cloud is spread over the skies,
And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies.
The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks,
And the alder leaf dank, with its silver drops shakes;
This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream,
With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver
Are sacred to beings ethereal and light,
Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night.
Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream,
The White Maid of the rock gave a shrill piercing
Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling
And rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave.
"The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock,
The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak;
Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid,
Uncoffin'd, except by his own Scottish plaid!
Long since has my girdle diminished to naught,
And the great house of Avenel low has been brought;
The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone,
And proud Avenel's glory for ever has flown.
As I sail'd and my white garments caught in the
'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the
Woe to thee! woe to thee! Maid of the Rock,'
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak;
Woe to thee! guardian spirit of Avenel!
Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet and dell?
No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep,
Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep!
Woe to thee! woe to thee! Maid of the rock,'
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak!
Then farewell, great Av'nel, thy proud race is run!
The girdle has vanish'd - my task is now done."
Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew,
And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet
THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER. (Written in her fourteenth year.)
Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing,
Thou brightest jewel of the heath,
Which waves at zephyr's lightest wing,
And trembles at the softest breath;
Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land,
Thou pretty fragrant burnie gem,
By whisp'ring breezes thou art fann'd,
And greenest leaves entwine thy stem.
No raging tempest beats thee down,
Or finds thee in thy safe retreat;
By no rough wint'ry winds thou'rt blown,
Safe seated at the dark rock's feet.
TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS.
Hang not thy harp upon the willow,
Mourn not a brighter, happier day,
But touch the chord, and life's wild billow
Will shrinking foam its shame away.
Then strike the chord and raise the strain
Which brightens that dark clouded brow;
Oh! beam one sunshine smile again,
And I'll forgive thy sadness now.
Tho' darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee,
Thy bark, tho' frail, shall safely ride;
The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee,
But thou wilt all their wrath abide.
Hang not thy harp upon the willow
Which weeps o'er every passing wave;
Tho' life is but a restless pillow,
There's calm and peace beyond the grave
|