Four of his men, the bravest four,

Sunk down beneath his sword:
But still he scorned the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.

Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierc'd him in the side;
Out spouting came the purple tide,
And all his tartans dyed.

But yet his sword quat not the grip,
Nor dropt he to the ground,

Till through his enemy's heart his steel

Had forced a mortal wound.

Graeme, like a tree with wind o'erthrown,

Fell breathless on the clay;

And down beside him sank the Rose,

The sad Matilda saw him fall:

"Oh, spare his life!" she cried;

"Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life; Let her not be denied!"

Her well-known voice the hero heard;

He raised his death-closed eyes,
And fixed them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies:

"In vain Matilda begs the life,

By death's arrest denied:

My race is run-adieu, my love-"
Then closed his eyes and died.

The sword, yet warm, from his left side With frantic hand she drew:

"I come, Sir James the Rose," she cried; "I come to follow you!"

She leaned the hilt against the ground,
And bared her snowy breast;
Then fell upon her lover's face,

And sunk to endless rest.

TO THE EU E K O O.
EYEKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee,

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet,

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy local vale,

Another guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

'TIS past the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.

Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes, beneath another sky,
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course:
Before his beams all noxious vapors fly.