Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and pray'd That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks they gored her sides bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed THE IRISH WIFE. 117 THE IRISH WIFE. THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. I WOULD not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand; For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life An outlaw, but I'm near her!-to love till death my Irish wife! Oh! what would be this home of mine-a ruin'd hermit-haunted place— But for the light that nightly shines upon its walls from Kathleen's face ? What comfort in a mine of gold, what pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold-if I could not wed my Irish wife? I knew the law forbade the banns, I knew my king abhorred her race, Who never bent before their clans, must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain: I cannot wage, with kinsmen, strife; Take knightly gear and noble name, but I will keep my Irish wife! My Irish wife has clear blue eyes-my heaven by day, my stars by night— And twin-like truth and fondness lie within her swelling bosom white, My Irish wife has golden hair-Apollo's harp had once such strings; Apollo's self might pause to hear her bird-like carol when she sings! I would not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land, I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand! For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life; In death I would be near her, and rise beside my Irish wife! DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. JOHN HOME. My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, The road he took, then hasten'd to my friends, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn, THE BATTLE OF MORG RTEN. The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard I left my father's house, and took with me THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. MRS. HEMANS. THE wine month shone in its golden prime, A sound through vaulted cave, But a band, the noblest band of all, But amidst his Alp domains, The herdsman's arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 119 But on the misty height Where the mountain people stood When storms at distance brood. There was stillness as of deep dead night, On wound these columns bright But they looked not to the misty height And the mighty rocks came bounding down With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown, They came like lauwine hurled From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away. With their pikes and massy clubs they brake And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake The field-but not of sheaves: Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves |