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Low the dauntless earl is laid,

Gored with many a gaping wound : Fate demands a nobler head ;

Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep,

Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep,

Strains of immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the sun : Sisters, weave the web of death ;

Sisters, cease ; the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands !

Songs of joy and triumph sing ! Joy to the victorious bands ;

Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,

Learn the tenor of our song : Scotland, through each winding vale,

Far and wide the notes prolong. Sisters, hence with spurs of speed :

Each her thundering falchion wield ; Each bestride her sable steed,

Hurry, hurry to the field !

A PSALM OF LIFE.

What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.

BY LONGFELLOW.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act-act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.

BY HOGG.

“ MACGREGOR, Macgregor, remember our foemen;
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond :
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay ;
Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away.”—

Stern scowled the Macgregor, then silent and sullen,
He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan :
“Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest.”

“Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying,
Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon ;
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,
We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here;”

“The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, And haughty M‘Nab, with his giants behind him ; This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind ;
Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind,
Nor ever receded a foot from the van,
Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man:
But I've sworn, by the cross, by my God, and my all !
An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall —
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.

“Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,
When entered a lady, with visage so wan,
And looks, such as never were fastened on man.
I knew her, O brother ! I knew her too well !
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell
As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained,
So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,
I knew not—but ages seemed short to the while,
Though, proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle,
With length of existence no man can enjoy,
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly!
The thrice-threatened pangs of last night to forego,
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below.
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,
The present to shun and some respite to find,
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile,
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

“She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone, The glory and name of Macgregor were gone; That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo, Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun : That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond.

“A parting embrace, in one moment she gave; Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave ! Then flitting illusive, she said, with a frown, "The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own !""

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“Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind ; The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind, Come, buckle thy panoply-march to the fieldSee, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield ! Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, When the lions of Dochart sood firm by his side. This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue ; Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue; Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring.”

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night,
Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light:
It faded—it darkened—he shuddered—he sighed,
“No! not for the universe !” low he replied.

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone :
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone.
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!
O’er mountains inverted the blue waters curled,
And rocked them on skies of a far nether world.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching;
The moon the blue zenith already was touching ;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill :
Young Malcolm, at distance couched, trembling the while-
Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle.

Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem ; Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom ; A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed ; She wimpled the water to weather and lee, And heaved as if born on the waves of the sea. Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen; The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,

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