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shepherds knew it themselves, did Fingal know that they were anxious to reach Glencoe. He led the way as if he were in moonlight; and often stood still when they were shifting their burden, and whined as if in grief. He knew where the bridges were-stones or logs; and he rounded the marshes where at springs the wild fowl feed. And thus instinct, and reason, and faith, conducted the saving band along,-and now they are at Glencoe, and at the door of the hut.
39. To life were brought the dead; and there, at midnight, sat they up like ghosts. Strange seemed they for a while to each others' eyes, and at each other they looked as if they had forgotten how dearly once they loved. Then, as if in holy fear, they gazed in each others' faces, thinking that they had awoke together in heaven. "Flora!" said Ronald,—and that sweet word, the first he had been able to speak, reminded him of all that had passed, and he knew that the God in whom they had put their trust had sent them deliverance. Flora, too, knew her parents, who were on their knees; and she strove to rise up and kneel down beside them, but she was powerless as a broken reed; and when she thought to join with them in thanksgiving, her voice was gone. Still as death sat all the people in the hut, and one or two who were fathers were not ashamed to weep.-John Wilson (Christopher North).
[The idea of this poem is the following. The daughter of the lord of the castle is about to be married, against her will, to a bridegroom chosen by her father. On a wild stormy night the lover whom she prefers carries her off by sea.]
"Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale—
Who should follow us now?
And she cried: “Ply the oar;
As she spoke, bolts of death,
And from isle, tower, and rock,
From the lee.
And "Fear'st thou ?" and "Fear'st thou ? "2
And "See'st thou ? and "Hear'st thou ?"
And "Drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,
I and thou ?"
One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover:
Their blood beats one measure,
While around the lashed ocean,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
In the court of the fortress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
On the topmost watch-turret,
And with curses as wild
The best, loveliest, and last,
helms'-man 1 can'-non
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE (1).
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
5 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 10 To quench it1!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
15 I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
20 A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then,2 life's journey just begun ? 25 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile!-it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 30 And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was. -Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 35 The parting words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.