From love, from friends and kindred torn,
And dash'd on Kilda's frightful coast!

Restless with grief, at op'ning day
For Lewis' isle I spread the sail;
Sweet rose the lark with cheerful lay,
And sweetly blew the flatt'ring gale!

Ah fate relentless! thus to cheat

With baneful lure and treach'rous smile!
Were human suff'rings not complete
Till wreck'd on Kilda's desert isle!

Lur'd by the light that gleams afar,
With fainting steps these cliffs I prest :-
O may it prove a polar star,

And guide to pity's sheltʼring breast!

Quick from his grasp the falchion flies As Col each opening arm extends; 'Approach, ill fated youth!' he cries, 'Here-here are none but suff'ring friends!

Like thee, we hail'd the matin song,
The flatt'ring gale, and faithless tide-
How sweet! by zephyrs borne along,
My harp and Mora by my side!

Why starts the youth? approach; draw near,
Behold the wreck of storm and wave-

"Tis all that's left!-my Harp so dear
I burn'd, that fair one's life to save!?

First pale, then crimson grew his cheek,
And sorely shook his manly frame !
His faltering tongue refus'd to speak,
Save to repeat his Mora's name-

A name which oft had charm'd his ear,
And e'en from childhood grew more sweet;
A name which love had render'd dear,
And sorrow taught him to repeat!

Long had he nurs'd the kindling flame,
Long, long possess'd her virgin heart;
But party feuds and discord came,

And forc'd the tend'rest pair to part.

Torn hapless thus from all he lov'd,
The wretched wand'rer left his home,
From isle to isle incessant rov'd ;-
His only wish to idly roam!

Oft had he brav'd the tempest's war,
Unaided in his slender bark;

Oft lonely steer'd by some faint star
That glimmer'd thro' the' involving dark;

Oft, oft uncertain whether driven,

Or near some rock, or breaker borne ; He'd quit his helm to guiding heaven, And sigh his cheerless lot till morn!

Oft had the wild heath been his bed,

On some lone hill, or craggy steep; i While light'nings flash'd around his head, And eagles scream'd his woes asleep.

Thus pass'd his wandering life away,
'A wretch by woes and tempests tost,'
Till fortune, in her changeful play,
Wreck'd him on Kilda's fatal coast.

Ah! little thought he while he strove
'Gainst whelming wave and rocky shore,
Yon light would guide him to his love,
For whom these ceaseless ills he bore!

"Why starts the youth ?-approach-draw near; Behold the wreck of storm and wave!'Tis all that's left?-my harp so dear I burn'd, that fair one's life to save!'

A glance from Mora's speaking eye

Half calm'd the fond youth's lab'ring breast, The tale goes round-the bleak winds sigh, And Col mistrustless sinks to rest.

Ah! how could cold distrust possess
A breast so gen'rous, kind and true!
A heart still melting to distress,

To love-false fair one! and to you

The morn arose with aspect drear,
The waves still dash with sullen roar-
Col starts from rest-no Mora's near,
The treacherous pair are far from shore!

From Kilda's cliff that towers on high,
He spies the white sail far at sea;

And while the big tear fills each eye,
Cries- Have I burn'd my harp for thee.'

'O most ungrateful of thy kind!

And most unjust to love and me !— O woman! woman! light as wind, I'll ne'er burn Harp again for thee!'

DONALD AND FLORA.

A BALLAD,

ON THE DEATH OE A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA-1778.

WHEN many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away

Sadd'ning to Mora.*

Loose flow'd her yellow 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, O Donald, haste!

Haste to thy Flora!

Twice twelve long months are o'er

Since on a foreign shore

You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora.

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

A retreat so named by the Lovers.