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She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and a length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poe composed the following lines:-

" She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

“ She sings the wild songs of her dear, native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking.
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
“ He had lived for his love ; for his country he died';

They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.

0, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow :
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow!”


123. Stanzas on Death.

How sweet to sleep where all is peace,

Where sorrow cannot reach the breast,
Where all life's idle throbbings cease,

And pain is lulled to rest ;
Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave,
To anchor in the silent grave! -

That quiet land, where, peril past,

The weary win a long repose;
The bruised spirit finds, at last,

A balm for all its woes;

And lowly grief and lordly pride
Lie down, like brothers, side by side.

The breath of slander cannot come

To break the calm that lingers there;
There is no dreaming in the tomb,

Nor waking to despair;
Unkindness cannot wound us more,
And all earth's bitterness is o'er.

The mother - she has gone to sleep,

With the babe upon her breast;
She has no weary watch to keep

Around her infant's rest:
His slumbers on her bosom fair

Shall never more be broken there.

How blessed - how blessed that home to gain,

And slumber in that soothing sleep,
From which we never rise to pain,

Nor ever wake to weep !
To win our way from the tempest's roar,
And reach with joy that heavenly shore !

124. Rob Roy, Frank, and Helen.


Rob Roy. Let me, now, speak of my own concerns. kinsman said something of my boys, that sticks in my heart, and maddens in my brain : 'twas truth he spoke, yet I dared not listen to it; 'twas fair he offered, yet I spurned that offer from very pride. My poor bairns! I'm vexed when I think they must lead their father's life.

Frank. Is there no way of amending such a life, and hereby affording them an honorable chance of

Rob Roy. You speak like a boy! Do you think the old, gnarled oak can be twisted, like the green sapling? Think you I can forget being branded as an outlaw ? ----stig. matized as a traitor ? -a price set upon my head ? — and my wife and family treated as the dam and cubs of a wolf?

the very name, which came to me from a long and noble line of martial ancestors, denounced, as if it were a spell to conjure up the devil !

Frank. Rely on it, the proscription of your name and family is considered, by the English, as a most cruel and arbitrary law.

Rob Roy. Still it is proscribed; and they shall hear of my vengeance, that would scorn to listen to the story of my wrongs. They shall find the name of M'Gregor is a spell to raise the wild spirit of these Highland glens. - Ah! Heaven help me! I found desolation where I left plenty

I looked east, west, north, and south, and saw neither hold nor hope, shed nor shelter; so, I e'en pulled the bonnet o'er my brow, buckled the broadsword to my side, took to the mountain and the glen, and became a broken man! But why do I speak of this ? — 'Tis of my children, of my poor bairns, I have thought, and the thought will not leave me.

Frank. Might they not, with some assistance, find an honorable resource in foreign service? If such be your wish, depend on its being gratified.

Rob Roy. (Stretching one hand to Frank, and passing the other across his eye.) I thank — I thank you. I could not have believed that mortal man would again have seen a tear in M'Gregor's eye. We'll speak of this hereafter we'll talk of it to Helen but I cannot well spare my boys yet - the heather is on fire.

Frank. Heather on fire! I do not understand.

Rob Roy. Rashleigh has set the torch - let them that can, prevent the blaze.

HELEN advances. Helen. Stranger, you came to our unhappy country when our blood was chafed, and our hands were red. Excuse the rudeness that gave so rough a welcome, and lay it on the evil times, not upon us.

Rob Roy. Helen, our friend has spoken kindly, and proffered nobly - our boys - our children

Helen. I understand — but no, no; this is not the time, besides, I— no- no - I will not

- cannot part from them. Frank. Your separation is not required - leave the country with them.

Helen. Quit the land of my sires ! - Never! Wild as we live, and hopeless, the world has not a scene that could console me were I to leave these rude rocks and glens, where the remembrance of our wrongs is ever sweetened by the recollection of our revenge.

Frank. M'Gregor!

Rob Roy. She says truly — 'twas a vain project — we cannot follow them cannot part with the last ties that render life endurable. Were I to lose sight of my

native hills, my heart would sink, and my arm would shrink like fern i' the winter's frost. No, Helen, no- the heather we have trod on while living shall bloom over us when dead.

Frank. I grieve that my opportunity of serving those who have so greatly befriended me, is incompatible with their prospects and desires.

Rob Roy. Farewell! The best wish MÄGregor can give his friend is — that he may see him no more.

Helen. A mother's blessing for the only kindness shown, for years, to the blood of M'Gregor, be upon you! Now, farewell !— Forget me, and mine. forever!

Frank. Forget ! Impossible!

Helen. All may be forgotten but the sense of dishonor and the desire of vengeance.


125. Time arresting the career of Pleasure.

Stay thee on thy mad career ;
Other sounds than Mirth's are near ;
Fling not those white arms in air ;
Cast those roses from thy hair ;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals' beat ;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff'
Hear my voice of warning, hear, -
Stay thee on thy mad career !
Raise thine eyes to yonder sky -
There is writ thy destiny ;
Clouds have veiled the new moonlight;
Stars have fallen from their height:
These are emblems of the fate
That waits thee - dark and desolate !
All Morn's lights are now thine own;
Soon their glories will be gone :
What remains when they depart?
Faded hope and withered heart,
Like a flower with no perfume
To keep a memory of its bloom.
Look that hour-marked round,
Listen to that fateful sound;
There my silent hand is stealing,
My more silent course revealing ;
Wild, devoted Pleasure, hear, -
Stay thee on thy mad career!



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