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النشر الإلكتروني

On beauty soonest will the eye
A blemish or a stain descry;

In summer skies are soonest seen

The clouds that shade their light serene;
The fairest spots are foulest made,
When horrors their delights pervade :
And the young earth in beauty built,
Seem'd loathsome when accursed by guilt.
So fared it then. As gazing o'er

That scene which spread those towers before,
The courtiers saw, extended wide,
A broad black arch from side to side
Of the vast space extended glide;
Spanning the heavens, and all below,
Within its dark and fearful bow.
The elder courtier then, who trod

In silence his young comrade near,
At length broke forth,-" O mighty God!
Look, Garcias, what a sight is here!
By every saint that o'er us treads,
The azure pavement of the sky,
What is that sign in heaven that spreads
Its awful sable arch on high?
By such a form we sure might scan
The rainbow's covenant-seal with man :
But there no beauteous tints are blending,
No colours in each other ending,
And not a ray of this fair night
Hath gem'd it with a spark of light;
But all is fearful, black, and strange,
Without one tint its hue to change!"
Then spake the younger courtier, who
Look'd on in fear, with stifled breath,-
"If old tradition's tales be true,
Yon apparition speaks of death!
Of royal death!-When monarchs die,
And down to dusky tombs are hurl'd,
Their fates are spoke by earth and sky,
And read and mourn'd by half the world;
And this thou know'st may we believe,
And the dark sign as truth receive
At such an hour as this:

Yon fearful, sable midnight bow
Our king's descent may well foreshow;
To the grave's dark abyss;
For ne'er did time and fate unite

To form so wild and fair a sight

Of gloom and brilliance, darkness, light,
A scene of pleasure and affright;

Of all, and aught save bliss.
"Unhappy Charles!"-the gale swept by,
And they who to the wild winds wake,

Well know that oft some fearful cry

Seems with their hollow sounds to break.

Unhappy Charles!-that gale replied,
Then came a shriek like demons howling ;
When in their hour of fiendish pride,

O'er some new victim they are scowling!
Each courtier sprang with beating heart,
And quick drawn breath and sudden start,
Nearer the palace, whence there came
Bright flashes of unearthly flame!
As if the sprite who rules the air
Had come with all his terrors there,
To bear his royal living prey
To realms of darkness far away.
But yet those courtiers could not stand
Like some who form the lordly band,
And leave their king alone to lie
In death's most dark extremity;
And not one former friend be near,
His parting soul to soothe and cheer;
And thus, though terror bound them fast,
On to the palace quick they pass'd.
Within the dreary chamber shone

No livid fires, no flames were streaming ; One pallid watch-light's ray alone

Was through the dark apartment gleaming. And not one echo of that sound

Was heard throughout the palace round;
It was as if the awful cry

Did with those lurid meteors die,
And all attendants silence kept,
As if the king for ever slept;

Save where the sound arose,
Of the low prayer, and sullen toll
That hymn'd to rest the parting soul,
That its last hours might peaceful roll,
And calm in death repose.

'Tis known to all, that men have said,
In death the heart may best be read;
For then is torn the veil away
That life wraps round our mortal clay;
And gives unto the world's slight view
Virtues and crimes alike untrue:
But when Death's talisman is there,
Deceptions all must melt in air,
Then all we shew is plain and sooth,
And all our words are words of truth.
So 'twas with Charles:-to guilt resign'd,
His loves and passions, heart and mind,
Grew darker and more stain'd with sin,
As guilt sway'd more his breast within
And then so false his heart reflected,
That crimes on crimes pass'd undetected,
And conscience sear'd by long delay,
Spake not until his dying day.

:

That day was come :-around his bed
Some few unwilling took their stand ;
And fewer still a tear-drop shed

O'er the lost ruler of their land.
Oh! 'twas a sight both sad and dread
To view that now uncrowned head,
Rack'd with vain fantasy's control,
Unruled by reason's power his soul,
Disease and pain around him flung,
Distress and madness on his tongue,
Which thus in passion's fits would wake,
Till nature's ties in pity break.
"Rivers of ice are round me flowing!
Transport me where the golden sun,
With noontide heat is ever glowing,
And his bright race is never done.
I did not bid ye, slaves, embrace
My frozen limbs with Iceland snows;
But bear me bleeding from the chase,
Warm furs around my form to close.
O heaven! I shiver,

And if thou wilt but hear my cry,
Oh! let not this keen agony
Around my frozen members quiver.
It is as marble to my heart!
Now through my brain
A thousand lightnings dart,
And yet I mourn in vain!

Aye,-Now the genial warmth returns again;
But that return

Brings with it shafts of fire and scorching pain,
Oh God I burn!

Whence come those flames that round my couch are spreading?
Whence come those fiends that on my bed are treading?
Oh! Death! thy near approach my soul is dreading;

Seize

My guards there,Ho!

ye upon that demon,-chain that fiend, I am a monarch yet, and to the end

I will be so !

What forms are these whose glances shed
A pale yet fearful light on me?
Like lamps that watch beside the dead,
Their cold blue eyes appear to be.
No, they are living men; for there
Is Charles of France, the crowned heir
Of him, the Wise, who stands beside
His brother's form,—and men say died
By those slow poisons!-O my brain
To madness wanders back again;
Both my elixirs might defy,
For if they drank, they did not die."

He ceased

and from a source unknown
Red flames burst out his couch around;
Then wilder horrors mark'd each groan.
And frantic grew each dying sound,
For none, though many a heart was brave,
Those fires could quench, the king could save;
Till death had closed all mortal strife
With pain, with nature, and with life;
And gave the sign that all was o'er,

That Charles of Navarre breathed no more.

He fell, and round the regal tower

Where once he lived, where thus he died,

E'en in that dark and dreadful hour,
The SABLE BOW expanded wide!

It spread o'er all created things
That from the palace ye descry;
And still appears when evil kings
Are call'd into eternity!

THE LEGEND OF DUNMORVEN.

The traveller shall come, he who knew me in health and beauty shall come, his eyes shall search the meads, but shall not find me.

SUPERSTITION in all ages has predominated more or less over the minds of the weak, the credulous, and the ignorant; and more especially when the Catholic religion was the established faith, when the belief in miracles, the adoration attached to sacred relics, and the unequivocal dominion the priests held over the minds of the uninformed, contributed to render the light of reason more obscure. Yet in those ages this credulity was not entirely confined to the uncultivated intellects of the vulgar, and even now all classes cling with romantic fondness to the long cherished and far-traced traditions of the days of their father's; for time having enwrapt their origin in his own dark mantle of obscurity, renders them still dearer from the mystery in which they are enveloped.

Now, as formerly, the natives of the more remote parts of the Highlands of Scotland will sit around their peat fires, through the long winter nights, when

-OSSIAN.

the northern blast "wi angry sough" whistles bleakly over the heath-covered hills, listening to the gude wife as she relates the tales" of other times;" tales still replete with interest, as they cherish that national attachment, which so particularly distinguishes this free and brave people.

The inhabitants of the mountain huts even yet remember the Legend of Dun

morven.

When the storm shall rage bleak,
O'er auld Aughtercla's grave,
And the tower of Dunmorven
Shall sink in the wave,
Then the last of the line

Shall meet with his doom;
And Dunmorven's proud heir

Find a watery tomb.
Then the storm shall rage bleak

O'er auld Aughtercla's grave,
And the tower of Dunmorven

Will sink in the wave.

The wandering stranger, or way-worn traveller, often found an hospitable welcome beneath the stately roof of Dun

morven Castle, whose lofty turrets proudly overlooked the northern wave, which lashed with incessant violence the rock on which it stood. The tower,

to which the tradition alluded, was the remains of a small fortress, placed at the base of the rock, as a watch-tower, to guard the castle from the incursions of the Danish invaders, or hostile chieftains of their own mountains. The prophecy had long been sung by the old minstrels of the house of Dunmorven, when the halls resounded with festivity and mirth, and the wassail bowl was drained to the health of the laird; and so strongly was the truth of it impressed on the minds of each succeeding generation, that the boldest of the clan could 1 ot pass the grave of auld Aughtercla, or view the nodding tower rock fearfully with the wintry blast, without trembling for the fate of the then existing heir. Yet time rolled on, and generation after generation mouldered into dust; the tradition was enrolled among the current superstitions of the mountains, and the cradle of each infant heir was lulled to the lay that recorded the fearful warning. At length the terrors of the devoted vassals were raised to new apprehensions, by the death of Donald, the oldest son of the laird, which left Allan, the younger, the last and sole remaining heir of the noble house of Dunmorven. Allan, to the grief and dismay of his father, cherished an unfortunate attachment for the lovely daughter of one of the humblest of his clansmen. Sweet as the violet rears its azure head beneath the clustered fern, and as unheeded, bloomed the innocent Annie; and though the unfeeling proud one, in all the haughtiness inspired by superior rank, might regard her with disdain, yet the eye of affection could not find a more pure and spotless heart than that which resided in her fair bosom. Love, free as the mountain wind, refused to bow to the mandate of an imperious parent; and, though forced to resign his Annie, young Allan preferred a temporary exile from the house of his father to plighting

his vows to another, and therefore prepared to lead his clan to the assistance of a neighbouring chieftain. Yet his brave and generous mind disdained to bend at the shrine of interest or ambition, and still wished to cherish a lingering hope of future bliss.

It was evening when he bent his way to the lonely hovel where she resided, and the awful stillness that reigned through the air proclaimed an approaching storm; the sun, like a ball of fire, rolled on a mountain cloud, into whose dark bosom it sunk, as if in eternal night, for the darkness that succeeded was horrible; yet neither the darkness, the sullen brooding tempest, nor the rising blast which fearfully swept along the plain, could deter Allan from urging his dreary way to the habitation of his soul's best treasure. He arrived there, the door was opened, and amid a pious circle, where the little family were assembled, he beheld her he sought; every eye was raised to heaven in heartfelt devotion; hers seemed to have assumed an expression of piety still more celestial. The smile that welcomed his approach quickly gave place to a deep sigh of silent anguish, when she understood he had come to bid her a last farewell. He perceived that sorrow was deeply rooted in her heart, and that, in wishing to transplant this fair blossom to his bosom, he had caused a blight to descend on its sweetness, which had sapped its strength, and withered its bloom. Her words spoke resignation, but her look betrayed it was rather the effort of calm despair; and when he would have soothed her, when he would have awakened a hope of future happiness, it was too evident that even the delusions of hope had lost their charms for her. She had long acknowledged a conviction that she could never become the bride of the heir of Dunmorven, and she had long struggled to conquer an affection which daily gained strength in her heart; but the effort was now past, and she was prepared for their final separation. The night ad

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