THE NYMPH MOURNING HER

FAWN.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst
alive

Them any harm, alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill;
Nor do I for all this, nor will:
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing,

And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood which doth

part

From thine, and wound me to the heart,

Yet could they not be clean, their

stain

Is dyed in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And, when it had left me far away,
'Twould stay and run again and
stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring time of the year
It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been,

Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,

As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword

That through thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee;

Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy
reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy moth-
er's friend,

Remember him for me!

He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page,

To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ringThe wedding-day was fixed to

morrow:

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow!

His mother from the window looked,
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walked
The greenwood path to meet her
brother:

They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough;

They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from the window look; Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west,

No longer search the forest thorough;

For wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. JOHN LOGAN.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes

around,

Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found,

Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch above him hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled as he wrought

His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.