LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries," Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."-

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.—

And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"-

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :--

It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady :

And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”—

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,—

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.—

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Uullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.-

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:-

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-oh 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.

1804.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er,

Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume

Her wings of immortality:

Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at BURNS's name,
Exorcised by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was given, To warble all its ecstasies

With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,—

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distill'd.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,

But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love?—
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught !-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms,
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet views,)
The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom BURNS's song inspires! Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,

With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd

By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land,