Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover!"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:-

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

66

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

"Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, O! too strong for human hand
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

Romance and Reality

Romance

and

Reality

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
His child he did discover :-

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief "Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-O my daughter!

99

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The King of Denmark's Ride

Word was brought to the Danish king,
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring
(Oh! ride as if you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl

Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; Romance And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounted a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were stuck in the foaming flank,
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened and girths were burst;
But, ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward

gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying.
The king looked back at that faithful child,
Wan was the face that answering smiled.
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped, and only the king rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn, (Silence!)

No answer came, but faint and forlorn

and Reality

and Reality

Romance An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing;
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride!
For, dead in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest
Stood weary;

The king returned from the chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast,

And that dumb companion eying,

The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck,-
"O steed that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed! our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying."
CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

The Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me, and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

Romance and Reality