I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,-
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, [near;

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

66

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 Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Scott.

A Beth Gelert.

THE spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;

And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:

"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;

He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord,
And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare:
And scant and small the booty proved;
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gain'd the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smear'd with gouts of
His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet:

His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd-
And on went Gelert too-

And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!

gore,

O'erturn'd his infant's bed, he found
The blood-stain'd covert rent;

And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He call'd his child-no voice replied;
He search’d—with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! he found on every side,
But no where found the child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!"
The frantic father cried;
And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side!

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh:
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!

Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kiss'd!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-
But, the same couch beneath,

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's wo;

Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,

This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha, for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every.blow!

Let us do, or die!

The Sailor's Orphan Boy.

STAY, lady stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale:
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake-
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale!

Spencer

Burns

Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy:
But in the Nile's proud fight he died
And I am now an orphan boy!

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Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought-
She could not bear to see my joy!
For with my father's life 'twas bought-
And made me a poor orphan boy!

The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears:
Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd-
My mother answered with her tears!
'Oh! why do tears steal down your cheeks,
Cried I," while others shout for joy?"
She kiss'd me, and, in accents weak,

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She call'd me-her "poor orphan boy!"

"What is an orphan boy?" I said;

When suddenly she gasp'd for breath,
And her eyes closed; I shriek'd for aid:-
But, ah! her eyes were closed in death!
My hardships since-I will not tell:
But now, no more a parent's joy,
Ah! lady, I have learn'd too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!-
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide;
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread—
The sailor's orphan boy has pride!
"Lady, you weep: what is't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ!"
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

Harmony of Expression.

Mrs. Opie.

BUT most by numbers judge a poet's song;
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong: