In darkness, through the dreary length Of winter, slept both bud and bloom; O man! a star hath shone to save,- The midnight darkness of the grave! Yet ponder well, how then shall break Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee ? That makes or weal or woe thine own; Must reap the harvest Time has sown! Treasures of the Deep. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main! Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain, Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the Depths have more !-What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Earth claims not thee again! Yet more, the Depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay! Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest, Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!Give back the true and brave! Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, -But all is not thine own! MRS. HEMANS. The Savoyard's Return. ངལལ་པ་་་་་་ OH! yonder is the well-known spot, Where I shall rest no more to roam ! But all their charms could not prevail Of distant climes the false report The woody dell, the hanging rock, That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, Shall while away the winter's eve. WHITE. Lochiel's Warning. WIZARD-LOCHIEL. Wiz. LOCHIEL! Lochiel, beware of the day Y They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; 薯 Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Loch. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling Or, if seer! gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantom of fright. Wiz. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode |