Glenara. H! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire and the people are called to her bier. Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; In silence they reached, over mountain and moor, "And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse! "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen! When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, SONG. In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, THOMAS CAMPBELL. VOL. III. I Song. BADE thee stay. Too well I know The fault was mine- mine only: I dared not think upon the past,, Yet go-ah, go! Those pleading eyes, For ah, those keen and pleading eyes A pang that will not pass away A love immortal and divine SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 4 73 In the Academy of Design. I SAW her in the corridor, Her form was beauty's own; She looked around with tranquil air By Thomas W. Wood. She seemed to care for him no whit, No doubt she only thought him fit Of dear, facetious Beard. He matched so ill her grace divine, I wished he might be shot By one of those extremely fine And stately soldiers, the design Of Mr. Julian Scott. Her hair was auburn; fold on fold It fell in wavy flow; And as its glory downward rolled, It shone with shining gleams of gold Her lissome grace you could perceive, I'm sure she rivalled Powers's Eve, By Henry Peters Gray. THE PORTRAIT. But oh, the splendor of her eyes! As radiant as the stars that rise, She shone the brightest jewel there, Methinks upon that lily hand And hear, with joy, the accents bland DAVID L. PROUDFIT. 75 The Portrait. MIDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs. A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet: Nobody with me my, watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else in the country-place All round that knew of my loss beside, But the good young priest with the Raphael-face Who confessed her when she died. That good young priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lip grew white as I could observe I sat by the dreary hearth alone : I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone : The woman I loved is no more. "On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. "It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept ; For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept." They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay : It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding-sheet; Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head. |