Nor blam'd his cruelty

-nor wifh'd to hate Whom once fhe lov'd-but pitied, and forgave: Then unrepining yielded to her fate,

And funk in filent anguish to the grave.

Children of affluence, hear a poor man's prayer!
O hafle, and free me from this dungeon's gloom;
Let not the hand of comfortless despair

Sink my grey hairs with forrow to the tomb.

COLMA.

IS night: and on the hill of florms
Alone doth Colma ftray:

While round her fhriek fantastic forms
Of ghofts that hate the day.

O'er rocks the torrent roars amain,

The whirlwind's voice is high:
To fave her from the wind and rain,
No friendly fhelter nigh!

Rife, moon! kind ftars! appear a while;
And guide me to the place,

Where refts my love, o'ercome with toil,
And wearied with the chace.

Some light! direct me, helpless maid!

Where fitting on the ground,
His bow unftrung is near him aid,
His panting dogs around.

Elfe by the rock, the ftream befide,
I here must fit me down;

While howls the wind, and roars the tide,
My lover's call to drown,

Ah! why, my Salgar! this delay,
Where flray thy ling'ring feet?
Didft thou not promife in the day
Thy love at night to meet?

Here is the rock, and here the tree,
Thine own appointed fpot;

Thy promife canft thou break with me?

And is my love forgot?

For thee I'd dare my brother's pride?
My father's house would fly,
For thee forfake my mother's fide;
With thee to live and die.

Be hufh'd, ye winds! how loud ye brawl! Stream! ftand a moment ftill;

Perhaps my love may hear me call,

Upon the neighbouring hill.

Q :

Ho! Salgar! Salgar! mend thy pace;
To Colma hafte away.

'Tis I, and this th' appointed place:
Ah! wherefore this delay?

Kind moon! thou giv'ft a friendly light;

And lo! the glaffy stream,

And the grey rocks, through dufky night,
Reflect thy filver beam.

Yet I defcry not Salgar's form;
No dogs before him run.--
Shall I not perish by the ftorm,
Before to-morrow's fun?

But what behold I, on the heath?
My love! my brother! laid-
O fpeak, my friends! nor hold your breath,
T'affright a trembling maid.

They answer not-they fleep-they're dead-
Alas! the horrid fight-
Here lie their angry fwords, ftill red,

And bleeding from the fight.

Ah! wherefore lies, by Salgar flain,
My brother bleeding here?
Why Salgar murder'd on the plain,
By one to me fo near?

Friends of my choice! how lov'd were both!
Who now your fame fhall raife?
Who fing my lover's plighted troth;
My brother's fong of praise?

Of thousands lovely, Salgar's face
Was lovelieft to the fight:
Renown'd my brother for the chace,
And terrible in fight:

Sons of my love! speak once again

Ah no!

to death a prey,

Silent they are, and muft remain;
For cold their breafts of clay.

But ere their fleeting fpirits fled,
Across the plain fo foon!

Or fhun the shadows of the dead
The glimples of the moon?

Speak, where on rock, or mountain grave,
Still clash your fouls of fire,
Or reconcil'd, in fome dark cave
Your peaceful ghofts retire.

Ah! where her friends fhall Colma find?
Hark- No--they're filent ftill-
No muttering answer brings the wind:
No whifper o'er the hill.

Fearlefs, yet overwhelm'd with grief, I fit all night in tears;

Hopelefs of comfort or relief,

When morning light appears.

Yet raife, ye friends of these the dead,
On this fad fpot their tomb;
But clofe not up their narrow bed;
Till hapless Colma come.

For why behind them should we flay,
Whofe life is now a dream?

Together here our corfes lay,
Befide the murmuring fiream.

So fhall my fhivering ghost be seen,
Lamenting o'er the flain;

As homeward hies the hunter keen,
Benighted on the plain.

Yet fhall he, fearless, pafs along,
And lend his liftening ear,

For fweet, though fad, fhall be my fong,
For friends I lov'd fo dear.