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FRAGMENT,

COMPOSED BY MOONLIGHT.*

O LONELY is the woodland scene,
For the month is leafy June;
And the lake is sleeping still, serene,
Beneath the silvery moon.

Far off the herds are browsing seen,
For they shun the lake with fear;
And the shepherd flies yon groves between,
For he dare not venture here.

And all around this lonely place

No step is heard, nor cry,

And the moon-beam in the water's face
Is trembling silently.

But loudly blew the autumnal breeze
Around Kincardine's tower;

It shower'd the foliage from the trees
In the witch Finella's bower.

And wildly on the mountain's side,
Through gathering tempests stern,
By fits the moon-beam was descried
On rock and withered fern.

Then from her bower Finella fled,
Beneath Kincardine's tower;

Through bush and brake she trembling sped,
While the storm began to lower.

The fiends forbade the witch to rest,
For her hour of fate was come;
A stifling flame consumed her breast,
As she wander'd through the gloom.

And faster now, through moss and mire,
With hurried step she flew;
While goblins, robed in flames of fire,
Her footsteps did pursue.

And onward still, by Fordoun's hill,

And Thornton's tower they past;

With shrieks the peaceful woods they fill,

And load the midnight blast.

* The murder of Kenneth II., King of Scotland, by Finella, of whom many wonders are related, is well known. These lines are founded on some errone ous traditions, still related in the parishes of Fettercairn and Garvock, regarding the manner of that murder, and the witch's subsequent death.

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"Its goodly boughs, its foliage fair,
Its rough trunk's stately swell,
All blasted by the flame, and bare,
A crumbling mass it fell.

"Then go not forth, my Lord, my life,
O go not forth, I pray!

Thy kinsmen true will quell the strife,
go not forth to-day!

"Last night, as on the turrets high
I stood, a blazing ball

Shot sudden down the starless sky,
Seemed on these towers to fall;

"And downward dash'd with shiv'ring shock,
At midnight's hour amain,

A fragment from the fatal rock*

Lies buried in the plain.

"With boding swell, Teith's angry wave
Has deluged all the mead;

The wonted sign when chieftains brave
Of Ogan's line must bleed.

"Last night, adown the moonless dale,
Where winds the chapel way,
The fatal lights with lustre pale,
By fits were seen to play.

"And slowly o'er the twilight heath
By gifted eyes were seen,

With wail of woe, the train of death,
A warrior's corse between.

"Then go not forth, my lord, my life,
O go not forth, I pray!

Thy kinsmen true will quell the strife,
O go not forth to-day!"

With straining eye, with throbbing breast,

High from the castle wall,

She's watch'd the east, she's watch'd the west,

From morn till even-fall,

She heeded not the breeze that blew

Chill on her bosom bare;

She heeded not the hoary dew

That gemm'd her raven hair.

The natives of Aberfoyle, in Perthshire, have a superstitious tradition, that when a portion of a certain rock in that neighbourhood falls to the plain, it denotes the approaching death of some Graham of distinction. And when the river Teith overflows the beautiful peninsula of Little Lennie, near Callender, where the burying place of the Buchanans is situated, the immediate death of some person of that name is expected as the infallible consequence.

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But vainly looks she to the hill,
And vainly to the lea;

She starts-'tis but the distant rill,
'Tis but the rustling tree.

The twilight fades: the moon shines clear,
And still her watch she keeps;

But hark! what moan comes o'er her ear
Of one that wails and weeps?

Ah! no; full well she knows the sound,
The boding sounds of death;
The moanings wild of startled hound,
That bays the passing wraith.

And dimly down the distant heath,
A warrior's corse between,

With wail and woe, a train of death
Descending now is seen.

Where yonder yews their shadows lave
In Teith's encircling tide,

They sleep within one grass-green grave,
The chieftain and his bride.

THE TRUMPET AND CHURCH-BELL,

BY MATTHEW WELD HARTSTONGE, ESQ.

THROUGH the throng'd streets, in proud array,
The gallant war-troop took their way;
On trampling steeds, with nodding plume,
And blades unsheath'd, the warriors come;
Loud in the wan the TRUMPET's breath
Wakes love of glory, scorn of death;
Peals its bold clamour high and clear,
And thrills each heart with joy and fear.

What sound so sullen, yet so loud,
Confounds at once the music proud?-
In the deep DEATH-BELL's dismal sound
War's stirring notes are sunk and drown'd:
Yet still betwixt each heavy swing

The shrilly trump is heard to ring,
Arraigned thus, to fancy's ear,
The sad intruder pealing near.

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Boots it to know, or when or how
The base-soul'd peasant leaves his plough:
Boots it to know, or how or when
Surfeits the pamper'd citizen;

Or how, degenerate from his sires,
In slothful ease the peer expires?
With such mean tidings dar'st thou mar
The voice of Victory and War;

The voice of Honour and of Fame,
Who bears my emblem and my name?

BELL.

Think not to awe my solemn knell,
Vain boaster, for I know thee well;
Not in the city's social bound
Should thy discordant summons sound;
There fittest heard where ravens come,
And croak thy burden with the drum;
Then fittest heard when ranks are broke,
And squadrons stagger in the shock;
There let thy braying clangour speak,
Mid oath, and groan, and dying shriek;
There emulate the cannon's knell,
Mock the gorged eagle's joyous yell,
And silence with thy clamorous breath
Thy victims in the throes of death:
But here thy vain bravadoe cease,
Mine is the house of God and Peace.

TRUMPET.

Yes, sluggard, yes! I boast 'tis mine
To cheer to arms the battled line;
With pride I own the glorious art,
'Gainst fate and fear to brace the heart;
The shrilling Rouse, the bold Advance,
Bids pulses throb and eyeballs glance;
The warrior hears my victor clang,
And recks not of his dying pang:
Then, dull monotony, forbear
With mine thy music to compare.
Thou call'st the clerk to hum his stave,
The sexton to the unfinish'd grave:
To deeds of fame I sound the way,-
I sound,-and mightiest chiefs obey.
Dust unto dust by thee is given,

My strains send heroes' souls to heaven.

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