rance found,
Many a day was passed in penance,
Kneeling on the cold, damp ground.
Autumn blanched the flowers of Summer,
And the forest robes grew sere;
Still in darkness knelt the maiden,
Pleading, "Mary! Mother! hear!"
Cold blasts through the valleys hurried,
Dry leaves fluttered on the gale;
But of him, the loved and absent,
Leaf and tempest told no tale.
Still and pale, a dreamless slumber
Slept he on the battle-plain,--
Steed beneath and vassal o'er him,--
Lost amid the hosts of slain.
Spring, with tranquil breath and fragrant,
Called the primrose from its grave,
Woke the low peal of the harebell,
Bade the purple heather wave;--
Lilies to the warm light opened,
Surges, sparkling, kissed the shore;
But the chieftain's orphan daughter
Saw the sunbeam--never more!
Suitors sent, her hand to purchase,
Some with wealth and some with fame;
But the vow was on her spirit,
And she shrank not from its claim.
Yet when starry worlds looked downwards,
Spirit-like, from realms on high,
And the violets in the valleys
Closed in sleep each dewy eye,--
While the night in wondrous beauty
O'er the softened landscape lay,
She came forth, with noiseless footstep
Moving 'mid the shadows gray,
Gazing ever towards the summit,
Where the gleam of scarf and plume
Faded in the hazy distance,
Leaving her to prayer and gloom.
Years, by her unmarked, unnumbered,
Crossed the dial-plate of Time;
Then she passed, one quiet midnight,
To the unseen Spirit-Clime.
But the twilight has departed,
And the moon is up on high;
Stranger, pass not, in thy journey,
Yon deserted court-yard by;
For it is whispered that, at evening,
Oft a misty form is seen,
In its silent progress casting
Not a shadow on the green,
'Neath the iron cross that standeth
On the mouldering wall and rude,
Like a noble thought uplifted
In the Past's deep solitude.
MY NATIVE ISLE.
My native isle! my native isle!
For ever round thy sunny steep
The low waves curl, with sparkling foam,
And solemn murmurs deep;
While o'er the surging waters blue
The ceaseless breezes throng,
|