Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page :
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee and One above.

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'My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.” –

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Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.

"Come hither, hither, my

staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?".
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

life?

My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,

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What answer shall she make?" —
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away."

For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine!

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

:

My native Land

Good Night!

::

CANTO THE THIRD (1816).

I.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they

The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

II.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,

And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed,

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

III.

In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the clouds onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up
tears,

Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life - where not a flower

appears.

IV.

Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,

And both may jar: it may be that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling,
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness so it fling
Forgetfulness around me it shall seem

To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful

theme.