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Then will the snooded highland girl,

And the meek lowland maid, Look out upon the tempest's whirl, And weep that where the hill-clouds curl

Their lovers' bones are laid.

But oft, in after years, the tale

Of this day's stormy strife Shall make the virgin's cheek grow pale, And kindle in the stripling Gael

The thirst for martial life.

THE BANDIT.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

Young Leon wore a glance of pride,
That made his rivals quail,
And won fair Lelia for his bride,
The violet of the vale.
She loved him—and when whispers rose,
She deem'd her dearest friends his foes-
Fled with him, and her all of life
Centred in those fond words-his wife.

To her, whate'er his mood had been,
A smile of love he wore,
As summer skies are most serene,
When the dark storm is o'er;
And yet at times a trembling came
Upon her, when he breathed her name,
Calling her wife—it seem'd like guilt,
The dark, mysterious awe she felt.

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