THE VIOLET. T HE violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, Moresweet through wat'ry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LADY, WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL TAKE these flowers which, purple waving, On the ruin'd rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there : They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE Forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, The moon looks through the drifting storm, For the waves roll whitening to the land, And dash against the shelvy strand. There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oak That mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the Bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death, "Minstrels and Bards of other days! "For the midnight wind is on the heath, "And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: "The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,* "Is wandering through the wild woodland; *The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. |