He dreamt, from his wheel an assassin had stepp'd,
And silent and slowly had close to him crept;
That the wretch, mangled piece-meal, and ghastly with gore,
From his wounds both the balms and the bandages tore ;
And to search for his dagger as now he began,
-"Strike! strike!" cried the voice of the Little Grey Man.

"Strike! strike!" cried the fiend, "or your wounds bleed anew!" He struck-it was Mary-Ann's life-blood he drewWith a shriek he awoke, nor his woes were they o'er; He beheld his pale love, to behold her no more!— eyes the poor maiden on Leopold cast,

Her

Gave him one look of love, 'twas her fondest, her last!

The Little Grey Man now he set up a yell,
Which was heard in the halls of fair Aix-la-Chapelle,
He raised up his head, and he raised up his chin;
And he grinn'd, as he shouted, a horrible grin ;
And he laugh'd a loud laugh, and his cap up he cast,
Exulting, as breathed the fond lovers their last.

As in each other's arms dead the fond lovers fell,
O'er the black lonely heath toll'd a low, distant bell;
From the gibbets and crosses shrieks issued, and
groans,
And wild to the blast flew the sculls and the bones;
Whilst the Little Grey Man, midst a shower of blood,
In a whirlwind was hurl'd into Sombermond's wood.

Of Mary-Ann's sorrows, and Leopold's woes,
Long shall Maise's dark stream tell the tale as it flows:
Long, long shall the gossips of Aix-la-Chapelle,

Of the heath and its horrors, the traveller tell;

Who shall prick on his steed with what swiftness he can, Lest he meet in the twilight the Little Grey Man.

On the Feast of St. Austin, to Sombermond's fair
Flock the youth of both sexes, its revels to share;
And in dainty apparel, all gallant and gay,
With dance, and with carols, and mirth, cheer the day;
While the proud castle's portal expanded, invites
To the hall's ample board, and its festive delights :

And there, on the richly-wrought arms, they view
Depicted, the woes of these lovers so true;
The troubles their sorrowful days that befel,
And the fate of the darling of Aix-la-Chapelle ;
Behold, as she bloom'd, the beloved Mary-Ann,
And the heart-freezing scowl of the Little Grey Man.

No. XX.

GLENFINLAS,

OR

LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.*

"For them the viewless forms of air obey,
"Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair:

They know what spirit brews the stormful day, "And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare

"To see the phantom train their secret work prepare."

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.

O HONE a rie! O hone a rie!

The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree,—

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

* Coronach is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. O hone a rie signifies-" Alas for the prince or chief."

sprung from great Macgilliannore,

The chief that never fear'd a foe,

How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow.

Well can the Saxon* widows tell

How, on the Teith's resounding shore,

The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.

But in his halls, on festal day,

How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane + tree;
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danced with Highland glee.

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ;—
But now the loud lament we swell,

O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!

The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied by the Highlanders to their Low-country neighbours.

↑ Beltane-tree; the fires lighted by the Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, are so called. It is festival celebrated with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales.

From distant isles a chieftain came,
The joys of Ronald's halls to find,
And chase with him the dark-brown game
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind.

'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle
The Seer's prophetic spirit* found,
As with a minstrel's fire the while

He waked his harp's harmonious sound.

Full

many a spell to him was known, Which wandering spirits shrink to hear,

And many a lay of potent tone

Was never meant for mortal ear.

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood

High converse with the dead they hold,

And oft

espy the fated shroud

That shall the future corpse infold.

* Seer's spirit. I can only describe the second sight, by adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls it "An impression either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present." To which I would only add, that the spectral appearances thus presented usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it while themselves under the pressure of melancholy.