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His care to evince for his thirsty Prince,
From a flagon a draught he drew,

Which the King now disdain'd, while a spring remain'd

So cooling before his view.

That instant up the hill he sends him to fill
The cup from the pure fountain-head-
The servant obeys, but a scene meets his gaze,
That strikes him with wonder and dread:

For before his eyes on the summit there lies
A dragon in death stretch'd cold!

All dreadful to see, by the spring lay he,
In many a monstrous fold.

There were spread forth his claws, and fast from his jaws

The poisonous foam did flow,

The venom sure to kill, was mix'd with the rill,
And trickled through the rock below.

The servant comes pale, and relates the tale
In his sovereign's wondering ears;

The flagon he took, while with horror he shook,
As the draught to his lips he bears.

The attendant surveys, with grief and amaze,
The tears which his master shed.

Then the King told with pain, how the Bird he had slain

In a moment by passion misled;

That creature whose love so ardently strove
His master's dear life to save!-

With many a pang he mourn'd for Zimfrang,
Consign'd to an early grave.

From that sad day did Allanberg allay
His passion through the rest of his reign;
His hands oft he wrung, and a ditty he sung
For the faithful Bird he had slain.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

Supposed to be sung by a Girl tenderly attached to him.

ALEXANDER PARK.

OH! take me to yon lonely grave,
Though dark and dreary be the hour,
And o'er my head the wild winds rave,
I'll feel not their relentless power.

For there, alas! the Minstrel sleeps,
Snatch'd sudden from this worldly scene;
Nor sees the eye that o'er him weeps,
Nor hears the sob of anguish keen.

Round his cold bed the virgin fays,

Beneath the moonbeam's silvery light, Shall chant, in softest strains, his praise, Till morn shall part the veil of night.

And while from brake or shadowy bower
His matin song the thrush shall sing,
Awake shall every sweetest flower,

And round his tomb their fragrance fling.

Oft by yon aged beech's side

His lay has charm'd the village maid; Then shone that eye in youthful pride, Which death's dark shadows now invade.

But, ah! to me how sweet the strain,
When love employ'd his tuneful lyre!
The frequent sigh-the swollen vein-
All, all betray'd the secret fire!

His eye's bright beam was soon o'ercast-
Blanch'd was the cheek of youthful glow;
He sunk by Death's o'erwhelming blast-
Then love's fond dream dissolv'd in woe!

His tomb I'll deck with choicest flowers,
With roses and with violets pale ;
My tears shall be their summer showers,
This bosom shield them from the gale.

Then take me to his lonely grave;

Though dark and dreary be the hour, And o'er my head the wild winds rave, I'll feel not their relentless power!

THE MUFFLED DRUM.

MAYNE.

Ан, me! how mournful, wan, and slow,
With arms revers'd the soldiers come-
Dirge-sounding trumpets full of woe,
And, sad to hear the Muffled Drum!

Advancing to the house of prayer,

Still sadder flows the dolesome strain; Ev'n Industry forgets her care,

And joins the melancholy train!

O! after all the toils of war,

How blest the brave man lays him down!.

His bier is a triumphal car

His grave is glory and renown!

What though no friends, nor kindred dear,
To grace his obsequies attend?
His comrades are his brothers here,

And every hero is his friend!

See Love and Truth all woe-begone,
And Beauty drooping in the crowd-
Their thoughts intent on him alone,
Who sleeps unconscious in his shroud!

Again the trumpet slowly sounds

The soldier's last funereal hymn-
Again the Muffled Drum rebounds,
And every eye with grief is dim!

The gen'rous steed which late he rode,
Seems too its master to deplore,

And follows to his last abode,

The Warrior who returns no more!

For him far hence a Mother sighs,
And fancies comforts yet to come !—
He'll never bless her longing eyes,
For whom resounds the Muffled Drum!

DONALD AND FLORA.

MACNEILL.

WHEN merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,

Poor Flora slipp'd away

Sadd'ning to Mora;

Loose flow'd her golden hair,
Quick heav'd her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air

She vented her sorrow!

"Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast;
Haste, then, oh, Donald! haste,
Haste to thy Flora!

Twice twelve long months are o'er
Since on a foreign shore

You promis'd to fight no more,

But meet me in Mora."

"Where now is Donald dear ?"
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
"Say, Is he still sincere

To his lov'd Flora ?"
Parents upbraid my moan;
Each heart is turn'd to stone;
Ah! Flora, thou'rt now alone,
Friendless in Mora!

"Come then, O come away! Donald, no longer stay!

Where can my rover stray

From his lov'd Flora?

Ah! sure he ne'er can be

False to his vows and me;

Oh, Heaven! Is not yonder he Bounding o'er Mora ?"

"Never, oh! wretched fair!"
(Sigh'd the sad messenger)
"Never shall Donald mair

Meet his lov'd Flora!

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