’Forward!’—­Nay, waste not idle breath,
  Gallants, ye win no green-wood wreath;
  His antlers dance above the heath,
    Like chieftain’s plumed helm;
  Right onward for the western peak,
  Where breaks the sky in one white streak,
  See, Isabel, in bold relief,
  To Fancy’s eye, Glenartney’s chief,
    Guarding his ancient realm. 
  So motionless, so noiseless there,
  His foot on rock, his head in air,
    Like sculptor’s breathing stone! 
  Then, snorting from the rapid race,
  Snuffs the free air a moment’s space,
  Glares grimly on the baffled chase,
    And seeks the covert loan.”

“THE COMPLAINT OF THE VIOLETS.

  By the silent foot of the shadowy hill
    We slept in our green retreats,
  And the April showers were wont to fill
    Our hearts with sweets;
  And though we lay in a lowly bower,
    Yet all things loved us well,
  And the waking bee left its fairest flower
    With us to dwell. 
  But the warm May came in his pride to woo
    The wealth of our virgin store,
  And our hearts just felt his breath, and knew
    Their sweets no more! 
  And the summer reigns on the quiet spot
    Where we dwell—­and its suns and showers
  Bring balm to our sisters’ hearts, but not—­
    Oh! not to ours! 
  We live—­we bloom—­but for ever o’er
    Is the charm of the earth and sky: 
  To our life, ye heavens, that balm restore,
    Or bid us die!”

“THE FOUNTAIN:  A BALLAD.

  Why startest thou back from that fount of sweet water? 
    The roses are drooping while waiting for thee;
  ’Ladye, ’tis dark with the red hue of slaughter,
    There is blood on that fountain—­oh! whose may it be?’
  Uprose the ladye at once from her dreaming,
    Dreams born of sighs from the violets round,
  The jasmine bough caught in her bright tresses, seeming
    In pity to keep the fair prisoner it bound. 
  Tear-like the white leaves fell round her, as, breaking
    The branch in her haste, to the fountain she flew,
  The wave and the flowers o’er its mirror were reeking,
    Pale as the marble around it she grew. 
  She followed its track to the grove of the willow,
    To the bower of the twilight it led her at last,
  There lay the bosom so often her pillow,
    But the dagger was in it, its beating was past. 
  Round the neck of the youth a light chain was entwining,
    The dagger had cleft it, she joined it again. 
  One dark curl of his, one of her’s like gold shining,
    ’They hoped this would part us, they hoped it in vain. 
  Race of dark hatred, the stern unforgiving. 
    Whose hearts are as cold as the steel which they wear. 
  By the blood of the dead, the despair of the living,
    Oh, house of my kinsman, my curse be your share!’
  She bowed her fair face on the sleeper