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A STERN FATHER'S LATE REPENT.
THAT morning found rough Tushilaw
No eye could trace without concern
The suffering warrior's troubled lookThe throbs that heav'd his bosom stern
No ear could bear, no heart could brook.
"Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame!
My Mary's prayers and accents mild Might well have render'd vengeance lameThis hand could ne'er have slain my child.
"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; Unblest, unhonour'd, my gray head
My child-would I had died for thee!"
The bells toll o'er a new-made grave;
THE HARP OF TEVIOT.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN LEYDEN.
WHY weeps the poplar o'er the stream?
Adown the links of Teviotdale ?
What strain was that so wild, so sweet,
A hymn of heaven that strain must be,
It flows not from yon streamer pale,
Nor from the window'd choirs of bliss; Ye maidens fair of Teviotdale,
What wild, what wondrous song is this?
A thoughtful shepherd, fair and young,
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
That tuned the Harp of Teviotdale.
"LEYDEN is fallen, and genius weeps!
"His lonely grave may balm entwine
"Ye spirits of that vernal clime,
Around his grave your vigils keep, And wake the choral hymn sublime, To soothe my Leyden's slumbers deep;
"For, ah! that soul of fire is fled,
To dream o'er fields of wondrous lore; And consecrate my rural reed,
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.