“Edward, lo! to sudden fate
  (Weave we the woof.  The thread is spun.)
    Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
  (The web is wove.  The work is done.)
  Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
  Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: 
  In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
  They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
  But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height
    Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? 
  Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! 
    Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! 
  No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
  All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia’s issue, hail!

    “Girt with many a baron bold
  Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
    And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
  In bearded majesty, appear. 
  In the midst a form divine! 
  Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line: 
  Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
  Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
  What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
    What strains of vocal transport round her play! 
  Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
    They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
  Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
  Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings.

   “The verse adorn again,
    Fierce War, and faithful Love,
  And Truth severe by fairy fiction drest. 
    In buskined measure move
  Pale Grief and pleasing Pain,
  With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
    A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
  Gales from blooming Eden bear;
  And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
    That lost in long futurity expire. 
  Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud,
    Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? 
  To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
    And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
  Enough for me; with joy I see
    The different doom our fates assign. 
  Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,
    To triumph, and to die, are mine.” 
  He spoke and headlong from the mountain’s height
  Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

THOMAS GRAY.

* * * * *

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
  My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
  Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
  My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
  Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
  The birthplace of valor, the country of worth;
  Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
  The hills of the Highlands forever I love.