Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over Hill and Hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam : Enough for him to find

The empty House when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,
And let us die together."

A Lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap

Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
By Faeries are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

XXI.

A FRAGMENT.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The Shadow of a Danish Boy.(1)

In clouds above, the Lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the Bird
Did never build her nest.

No Beast, no Bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,

Pass high above those fragrant bells

To other flowers; - to other dells

Their burthens do they bear;

The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

A Spirit of noon-day is he;

He seems a Form of flesh and blood;

Nor piping Shepherd shall he be,
Nor Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee ;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;

And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
-They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky

So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest

And happy in his flowery cove:

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far

And yet he warbles songs of

That seem like songs of love,

war,

For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.

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