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XIV.

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this Orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its Head this Coronet ?

Was it the humour of a Child?

Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
Of Man mature, or Matron sage?
Or Old-man toying with his age?

I asked-'twas whispered, The device
To each or all might well belong :
It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

XV.

SONG

FOR THE

WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains

Roar down many a craggy steep,

Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,

Not the less he loves his haven

In the bosom of the cliff.

VOL. I.

T

Though the Sea-horse in the ocean

Own no dear domestic cave;

Yet he slumbers without motion

On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never-never does the trouble

Of the Wanderer leave my soul.

XVI.

THE SEVEN SISTERS,

OR

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,

All Children of one Mother:

I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,

He loved the Wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The Warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the Band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a Grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like Fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of Man and Steed,

Away they fly to left to right-
Of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

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