A STERN FATHER'S LATE REPENT. ANCE. THAT morning found rough Tushilaw In all the father's guise appear; An end of all his hopes he saw No eye could trace without concern The suffering warrior's troubled look- "Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame! "But thou, in frenzied fatal hour, Reft the sweet life thou gav'st away, And crush'd to earth the fairest flower That ever breathed the breeze of day. "My all is lost, my hope is fled, The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me; The bells toll o'er a new-made grave; From The Queen's Wake. THE HARP OF TEVIOT. LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN LEYDEN. WHY weeps the poplar o'er the stream? What strain was that so wild, so sweet, It flows not from yon streamer pale, What wild, what wondrous song is this? A thoughtful shepherd, fair and young, rung, and aye it sung; But every note was fraught with pain. Full well the fairy sound he knew; So sweetly down the dale it rung, The fieldfare, and the merlin gray. The wakeful cock forgot to crow, The snow-birds flocked around the tree, And ravish'd, sunk in trance of woe, Thrilled by the melting melody. It rang so low, it rang so long, Few were the notes the youth could hear, But aye the burden of the song Was, "Soundly sleeps my Minstrel dear." "The gray moss o'er my strings shall spread, My notes must die adown the vale, Since lowly lies the Minstrel's head "LEYDEN is fallen, and genius weeps! Sound, sound the bard of Teviot sleeps! "His lonely grave may balm entwine "Ye spirits of that vernal clime, "For, ah! that soul of fire is fled, To dream o'er fields of wondrous lore; And consecrate my rural reed, 66 A Harp of Heaven for evermore. Long may the Harp of Teviotdale Forgotten on the poplar hang, Save when the spirits of the vale At midnight twang my runic string." Slow died its wailing sound away; The shepherd sought the poplar pale, And reached his skilless hand to play The heavenly Harp of Teviotdale. A spirit clove the welkin gray, Swift as the motion of the mind; The sacred symbol snatch'd away, And mounted on the murmuring wind. |