And broken with sighs, now for ever must be Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly, XLI. I COME IN THE MORN.* Flora's Song. I come in the morn, I come in the hour In thy beauty's pride Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side. *For the better understanding of this song, it may be necessary to remark that the Western Islanders entertain a tradition that, previous to the death of any young and remarkably beautiful bride among them, an apparition, resembling a mermaid, is always observed. This phantom they distinguish by the name of Flora, or the spirit of the Green Isle, and concur in affirming that it made its appearance immediately before the death of the late much-lamented Princess Charlotte of Wales. Whatever credit may be due to the assertion, or even to the fancy on which it is founded, the song itself possesses considerable merit, and is not unworthy the mournful occasion which The eye I touch must be soft and blue As the sky where the stars are gleaming,- And the spirit within as pure and bright As the stream that leaps among tufts of roses, And sparkles along all life and light, Then calm in its open bed reposes. By thy true love's side, To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide. it is meant to commemorate. The following stanzas, which we have placed under the note, are, in the original, prefixed to the song, and serve very properly as a useful introduction, by solemnizing our minds for the mournful dirge. A voice said from the silver sea, "Woe to thee, Green Isle !-woe to thee!" The Warden from his watch-tow'r bent, But land, and wave, and firmament So calmly slept, he might have heard The swift wing of the mountain bird-- The Warden from his tow'r looks round, The spirit of the Isle is singing In depths which man hath never found. I saw them wreathing a crown for thee, And thy bridal robe was a winding sheet, And the Loves that crown'd thee sat to spin it. They heap'd with garlands thy purple bed, And every flower on earth they found thee, But every flower in the wreath shall fade, Save those thy bounty scatter'd round thee, Yet sweetly sleep, While my hour I keep, For angels, to-night, shall watch and weep. O, Green Isle !-woe to thy hope and pride! And the streams of love around it flowing;To-morrow thy tower shall stand alone, Thy hoary oak shall live and flourish; But the dove from its branches shall be goneThe rose that deck'd its stem shall perish. XLII. ON PARTING. The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left, Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see: The tear that from thine eyelid streams, Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest, Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write to tell the tale, Oh! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak? By day or night, in weal or woe, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. XLIII. IN SUMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. In simmer, when the hay was mawn, Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will; O' gude advisement comes nae ill. "Tis ye hae wooers mony a ane, And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken, |