Then who will cheer my bonny bride Out spoke the hardy Highland wight "And by my word! the bonny bird By this the storm grew loud apace, And in the scowl of heaven each face But still as wilder blew the wind "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 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 Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,- For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 66 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!" '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, 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; 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 blew a blast on his bugle-horn, (Silence!) No answer came, but faint and forlorn and Reality Romance An echo returned on the cold gray morn, and Reality Like the breath of a spirit sighing; The castle portal stood grimly wide; Who had yearned for his voice while dying. The panting steed with a drooping crest The king returned from the chamber of rest, And that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; The Shepherd to His Love There will we sit upon the rocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls There will I make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy silver dishes for thy meat, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. Romance and Reality |