S'

XIII

THE SEVEN SISTERS

OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

I

EVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:

You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

II

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

III

Beside a grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right-

Of your fair household, Father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

IV

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, 'Your Father loves to roam :
Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!'

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather;

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They run, and cry, Nay, let us die,
And let us die together.'

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A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

VI

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

1800

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W

XIV

HO fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age?

I asked 'twas whispered; The device
To each and all might well belong:

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

XV

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

RT thou the bird whom Man loves best,

AR

The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird that by some name or other

All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?

Could Father Adam 1 open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about ;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou couldst

A beautiful creature,

pursue

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The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,

He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Wouldst thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

1802

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1 See Paradise Lost, Book xI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing 'two Birds of gayest plume,' and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.

XVI

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE
PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND

WIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!

When the weary fingers feel

Help, as if from faery power;

Dewy night o'ershades the ground;

Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,

Couch the widely-scattered sheep ;-
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

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1812

XVII

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS

HO but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise,

'WH

Their ability to measure

With great enterprise;

But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies!

Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!

Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms!

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