"Come back, come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-O my daughter!"

'Twas vain :-the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAmpbell.

XL

THE DEMON-LOVER

"O WHERE have you been, my long lost love, This seven long years and more?"

"O I'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before."

"O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife ;

O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For I am become a wife."

He turned him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his e'e;

"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground
If it had not been for thee.

"I might hae had a king's daughter,
Far, far beyond the sea;

I might hae had a king's daughter,
Had it not been for love o' thee."

"If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yersel ye had to blame;

Ye might have taken the king's daughter,
For ye kenned that I was nane."

"O fause are the vows of womankind,
But fair is their fause bodie;

I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,
Had it not been for love o' thee."

"If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,

O what have you to take me to,
If with you I should go?"

"I hae seven ships upon the sea,
The eighth brought me to land;
With four-and-twenty bold mariners,
And music on every hand."

She has taken up her two little babes,
Kissed them baith cheek and chin;
"O fair ye weel, my ain two babes,
For I'll never see you again.'

She set her foot upon the ship,

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No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie,

And the masts o' the beaten gold.

She had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his e'e.

The masts, that were like the beaten gold,

Bent not on the heaving seas;

The sails, that were o' the taffetie,

Fill'd not in the east land breeze.

They had not sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot,

And she wept right bitterlie.

"O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "Of your weeping now let me be;

I will show you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy."

"O what are yon, yon pleasant hills,
That the sun shines sweetly on?"
"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said,
"Where you will never win."

"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said, "All so dreary wi' frost and snow?" "O yon is the mountain of hell," he said, 66 Where you and I will go."

And aye when she turned her round about,
Aye taller he seemed for to be;
Until that the tops o' that gallant ship

Nae taller were than he.

The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud,
And the levin filled her e'e;

And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites
Upon the gurlie sea.

He strack the tap-mast wi' his hand,

The foremast wi' his knee;

And he brake that gallant ship in twain,
And sank her in the sea.

UNKNOWN.

XLI

LEWTI,

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT

AT midnight by the stream I roved,
To forget the form I loved.

Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

The moon was high, the moonlight gleam,
And the shadow of a star,

Heaved upon Tamaha's stream;

But the rock shone brighter far.
The rock half-shelter'd from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew.
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

Onward to the moon it passed: Still brighter and more bright it grew, With floating colours not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last;

Then the cloud was wholly bright,
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek,

And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.

The little cloud-it floats away,
Away it goes; away so soon?
Alas! it has no power to stay:
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray-
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky--
And now 'tis whiter than before!
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie
A dying man for love of thee.

Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-
And yet, thou did'st not look unkind.

I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin and white, and very high:

I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud.
Perhaps the breezes, that can fly
Now below and now above,
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud
Of lady fair-that died for love.

For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
For Lewti never will be kind.