'Tis sure some dream—so

-some vision vain! What I, the child of rank and wealth; Am I the wretch that clanks this chain, Deprived of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings past,

.

Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart! how burns my head! But 'tis not mad! no, 'tis not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face-a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung,
Nor how with me you sued to stay ;

Nor how that suit your sire denied ;
Nor how-I'll drive such thoughts away !
They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone?
And shall I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad!

O hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain, some furious madman breaks!
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now my dungeon-grate he shakes!
Help! help! He's gone! Oh! fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain! my brain !-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be !

Yes, soon! for, lo, you! while I speak,
Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare;
He sees me-now, with dreadful shriek
He whirls a serpent high in air.

Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crush'd and sad!
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth;
Your task is done: I'm mad! I'm mad!

LEWIS.

THE COMBAT.

FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

THE chief in silence strode before,

And reached that torrent's sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastle the mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle-wings unfurled.
And here his course the chieftain staid,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:-
-
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
"Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust;

This murderous chief, this ruthless man, "This head of a rebellious clan,

"Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, "Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.

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Now man to man, and steel to steel,

A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.

See, here, all vantageless I stand,

Armed, like thyself, with single brand! "For this is Coilantogle ford,

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And thou must keep thee with thy sword."

The Saxon paused:-" I ne'er delayed

When foeman bade me draw my blade:

Nay, more, brave chief, I vowed thy death!

'Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

"And my deep debt for life preserved, "A better meed have well deserved.

"Can nought but blood our feud atone?

"Are there no means?" "No, stranger, none !

"And hear! to fire thy flagging zeal,
"The Saxon cause rests on thy steel!
"For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred,
Between the living and the dead:

Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife."

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Then, by my word," the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read;

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff; "There lies Red Murdoch-stark and stiff! "Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,

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Then yield to Fate, and not to me!

To James, at Stirling, let us go;

When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the King shall not agree

To grant thee grace and favour free,
I plight mine honour, oath, and word,
"That, to thy native strengths restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land."

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye : "Soars thy presumption then so high, "Because a wretched kern ye slew,

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Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? "He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! "Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:

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My clansman's blood demands revenge. "Not yet prepared? By Heaven, I change "My thought, and hold thy valour light "As that of some vain carpet-knight, ́ "Who ill deserved my courteous care, "And whose best boast is but to wear "A braid of his fair lady's hair."

I thank thee, Roderick, for the word; "It nerves my heart, and steels my sword!

For I have sworn this braid to stain

In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!

"Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud chief! can courtesy be shown:

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, "Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

"Of this small horn one feeble blast

"Would fearful odds against thee cast.

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But fear not-doubt not-which thou wilt,
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.”

Then each at once his falchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw ;
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again.
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw ;
Whose brazen studs, and tough bull-hide,
Had death so often dashed aside:
For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter-shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand;
And, backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee.

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Now, yield thee, or by Him who made

The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

"Let recreant yield who fears to die."

Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil;
Like mountain-cat, who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain! Down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The chieftain's gripe his throat compressed;
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight;
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!
But hate and fury ill supplied

The stream of life's exhausted tide:
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting chief's relaxing grasp.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

SCOTT.

THE CORSAIR.

THE lights are high on beacon and from bower,
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower:
He looks in vain-'tis strange-and all remark,
Amid so many, her's alone is dark.

'Tis strange-of yore its welcome never failed!
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veiled.