God save our gracious King,
And send him long to live;
Lord, mischief on them bring,
That will not their alms give;
But seek to rob the poor,
Of that which is their due:
This was not in time of yore,
When this old cap was new.
THERE is a wood which few dare tread,
So gloomy are the hoary trees :
The vaulted chambers of the dead
Scarce fill the soul with half the dread
You feel while standing under these.
Deep in its centre stands a lake,
Which the o'erhanging umbrage darkens; No roaring wind those boughs can shake, Ruffle the water's face, or break
The silence there which ever hearkens.
No flowers around that water grow,
The birds fly over it in fear,
The antique roots about it bow,
The newt and toad crawl deep below,
The black snake also sleepeth there.
Few are the spots so deathly still,
So wrapt in deep eternal gloom:
No sound is heard of sylvan rill,
A voiceless silence seems to fill
The air around that liquid tomb.
The ivy creepeth to and fro,
Along the arching boughs which meet;
The fir and dark-leaved mistletoe
Hang o'er the holly and black-sloe,
In darkness which can ne'er retreat.
For there the sunbeams never shine,
That sullen lake beholds no sky;
No moonbeam drops its silvery line
No star looks down with eye benign :
Even the white owl hurries by.
The huntsman passes at full speed,
The hounds howl loud and seem to fear it;
The fox makes for the open mead,
Full in the teeth of man and steed-
He will not deign to shelter near it.
No woodman's axe is heard to sound
Within that forest night or day;
No human footstep dents the ground,
No voice disturbs the deep profound,
No living soul dare through it stray.
For shrieks are heard there in the night,
And wailings of a little child;
And ghastly streams of lurid light
Have flashed upon the traveller's sight,
When riding by that forest wild.
For there hath human blood been shed
Beside the tangling bramble's brake,
And still they say the murdered dead,
Rise nightly from their watery bed,
And wander round the Haunted Lake.
"Tis said she is a lady fair,
In silken robes superbly dressed,
With large bright eyes that wildly glare,
While clotted locks of long black hair
Drop o'er the infant at her breast.
She speaks not, but her white hand raises,
And to the lake with pointed finger
Beckons the step of him who gazes;
Then shrieking seeks the leafy mazes,
Leaving a pale blue light to linger.
But who she is no one can tell,
Nor who her murderer might be,-
But one beside that wood did dwell,
On whom suspicion darkly fall:
A rich, unhappy lord was he,
In an old hall he lived alone,
No servant with him dared to stay; For shriek and yell, and piercing groan, And infant's cry, and woman's moan,
Rang through those chambers night and day.
He was indeed a wretched man,
And wrung his hands, and beat his breast:
His cheeks were sunken, thin and wan,
Remorse had long deep furrows run
Across his brow, he could not rest.
He sometimes wandered round the wood,
Or stood to listen by its side;
Or bending o'er the meadow-flood,
Would try to wash away the blood,
With which his guilty hands seemed dyed.
He never spoke to living soul;
Oh, how an infant made him quake!
For then his eyes would wildly roll,
And he would shriek, and curse, and growl,
As if he felt the burning lake.
A well in the Den of Ardo, Aberdeenshire, sacred to St. Devenick.
IN simple times, when simple folks
Had faith in simple spell,
How many sought thy healing spring,
O good St. De'nick's Well!
St. De'nick's waters still give back
The sparkling rays of noon;
But who believes their mystic power,
Or craves the mystic boon?
No more revered is Methlic's saint,
Nor sought sweet Ardo's vale;
No trusting pilgrim comes to drink,
Nor whisper forth his tale.
For now the folks so wise are grown,
They mock at holy rill;
And, scoffing at such simple creed,
They pay the doctor's bill!
But though they hug their nostrums dear,
In whispers let me tell
That, perhaps, as happy cures were wrought
At good St. De'nick's Well!
LEGEND OF THE WINE TOWER.
The Wine Tower is an old quadrangular building, rising from a rock which overhangs the sea, about fifty yards east from the Castle of Kinnaird's Head, Aberdeenshire.
LOVE wove a chaplet passing fair,
Within Kinnaird's proud tower;
Where joyous youth, and beauty rare,
Lay captive to his power.
But woe is me!-alack the day!
Pride spurned the simple wreath;
And scattering all those blooms away,
He doomed sweet love to death.
No bridal wreath, O maiden fair!
Thy brow shall e'er adorn;
A father's stern behest is there,
Of pride and avarice born.
What boots to him thy vows, thy tears ?
What boots thy plighted troth?
One rich in pelf, and hoar in years,
Is deemed of seemlier worth
Than he who with but love to guide,
Keeps tryst in yonder bower;
Where ruffians-hired by ruffian pride-
His stalwart limbs secure.
Where rolls old ocean's surging tide,
The Wine Tower beetling stands,
Right o'er a cavern deep and wide—
No work of mortal hands.
Dark as the dark expanse of hell,
That cavern's dreary space;
Whence never captive came to tell
The secrets of the place.
There bound in cruel fetters, lies
The lover fond and true;
No more to glad the maiden's eyes,
No more to bless her view!
LEGEND OF THE WINE TOWER.
No pitying hand relieves his want,
No loving eye his woe;
A hapless prey to hunger gaunt—
He dies in torments slow!
Thus slept the youth in death's embrace :-
Darkly the tyrant smiled;
The corse they dragged from that dread plane,
And bore it to his child.
“Ay, say,” he cried, “what greets thy view ?
Canst trace these whilome charms?
Henceforth a fitter mate shall woo
And win thee to his arms.
“Didst think that these, my brave broad lands
His love would well repay?
No. minion, no!-for other hands
Shall bear the prize away."
These direful words the maid arrest,
A marble hue she bore;
Then sinking on that clay-cold breast,
“We part," she cried, "no more!
Then clasping close that shrouded form,
Which erst had love inspired;
Fearless she breasted cliff and storm,
By love and frenzy fired.
“Farewell, O ruthless sire," she crie‹1,
Farewell earth's all of good;
Our bridal waits below the tide,”—
Then plunged into the flood!
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