ARABELLA.

Her weeping mother sees the bier,

Borne slowly through the inquiring throng; These wailings and that heart-wrung tear, Will rankle in her bosom long.

Her gray-hair'd father bears the pall,
He sees not ought of all the crowd;
For hopes-fair prospects-each and all,
Rest with his daughter in her shroud.

Her youthful lover swells the train;-
What father, mother, all may feel,
Are keenly felt by him,-the pain
Of blighted love, who dares conceal!

The grave

By

receives this opening flower, all who knew her, lov'd, caress'd;

Cropp'd down by thine unerring power,

Consumption, scourge to the human breast.

The pall's remov'd, the gilded plate
On the dark coffin tells thy name,

Dead Arabella! age, and date,
Now greets the tell-tale eye of fame.

We thought thee older than thou seem'd, When Heaven reclaim'd thee as its own: "Etatis Seventeen!"-we deem'd

Thy teens were o'er, thy girlhood gone.

211

Thy maiden mind was premature,
Thy beauty, name it not 'tis gone,-
Thy worth, thy modesty so pure,
We saw, and felt them, not alone.

The sexton as he clamp'd the sod,

On thy bone-mingled bed of earth,
Dream'd not of Pluto's drear abode,
Nor parents' wail, nor beauty's worth,

But carelessly some ditty sang,

As with his spade he smooth'd the dust; Perhaps, love never lent his pang To this rude misanthropist.

At pleasure now the tempest roars,
And swirls around the cheerless lair;
While the rain-god in torrents pours,
His watery bosom bare.

Sun, wind, or rain, she heeds them not,— To heaven the maiden's soul has fled, While the mortal part, by man forgot, Lies mingling with its kindred dead.

Such is the tale, my brother worm!
Rung in thine ear, from hour to hour,
And keenly felt;—still no reform,

Till death's mandates above thee lower.

SWEET! COME AWAY MY DARLING.

213

SWEET! COME AWAY MY DARLING.

SWEET! come away my darling,

And range Rowallan glens with me;
Where balmy through the wild wood,
Young zephyr's breath o'er flower and tree
Tells summer in her childhood

Lies blooming all before thee;

And strews around the spangled lea,

Full many a dainty garland.

Sweet! come away my darling,

Rowallan woods through summer's reign,

Ne'er smiled upon a blossom,

So peerless as the Lady Jane;

Yon water-lily's bosom,

Like thine's, pure without a stain,

As her snowy-cups repose them,
On the lake's breast, my darling.

Young Fairlie and his darling,

They wander'd down the greenwood's dell,
Where fluttering round his fond heart,

Love panted all its fears to tell;

But hope may ward each willing art,
And every cloud dispel,

That intervening strives to part

Young Fairlie and his darling.

The above was suggested, after reading the following sentence in the history and descent of the house of Rowallan:

"Tradition

still points out the spot where Fairlie was married to the heiress

of Rowallan. The ceremony was performed by a curate in the fields, about a quarter of a mile from the house of Rowallan, at a tree, still called the marriage tree, which stands on the top of a steep bank, above that part of the stream, called 'Janet's Kirn.”

APRIL IS IN MY MARY'S FACE.

Air.-In "TEKILI."

APRIL is in my Mary's face,

And wantons round to be caress'd,
While July in her eyes hath place,
Strewing young rose-buds o'er her breast.
See, glittering from the dew-clad spray,
Aurora brightens up the day,

And tells the blooming maiden May,
To garland all the wild for thee.

The hawthorn, now, the spreading sloe,
Shower fragrance down the vocal glen;
Where early summer glances thro',
The greenwood mazes once again;
I love to wander where the sound
Of falling waters aye rebound,
This fairy-haunted glen around,
If Mary tracks the world with me.

When autumn's breath has brown'd the groves,

The eyebright, and the asphodel,
Will linger where Pomona roves,

Till winter steals across the dell;

FAIR MARY ANNE.

Then, Mary, will the bleak snow-storm,
Our once fair meads and glens deform;
And trackless wilds where'er we roam,

Enshrines each dear-loved scene from thee.

wwwwwwww

215

FAIRY MARY ANNE.

Air.. "OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE Isle.

""

WHEN ruby-faced twilight danced over the hill,
To wake up the fairies, and weary birds still,
On the gay banks of Clutha, to meet Mary Anne,
I wander'd one evening, ere winter began.

When the breeze rustled o'er

The wan leaves on the tree,

And strew'd all the shore,

And the sheaf-cover'd lea;

While stars twinkled bright in the firmament blue,
Reflecting their glare on the rose-drooping dew.

My bosom throbb'd quick, o'er the banks as I trod,
For I deem'd not the winds on the hill were abroad,
Till storm-chaffed clouds the pale moon overcast,
And her face was obscured in the wings of the blast.
And the stars they were gone,

As the storm gather'd round,
Yet I still wander'd on

Through the darkness profound;

For Love was my guide to the jessamine bower,
Where she promised to meet me at twilight's soft hour.