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Thus in the tissue of my tale, herein
By records not unvouched, again I spin,

As heretofore, an interwoven thread
Of feminine affection fancy-fed.

-Rest thee a space or if thou lov'st to hear
A soft pulsation in thine easy ear,

Turn thou the page, and let thy senses drink
A lay that shall not trouble thee to think.
Quitting the heroine of the past, thou'lt see
In this prefigured her that is to be.

And find what life was hers before the date

That with the Fleming's fortunes linked her fate. This

sang she to herself one summer's eve,

A recreant from festivities that grieve

The heart not festive; stealing to her bower,

With this she whiled away the lonely evening hour.

THE LAY OF ELENA.

He asked me had I yet forgot
The mountains of my native land?
I sought an answer, but had not

The words at my command.

They would not come, and it was better so,
For had I uttered aught, my tears I know
Had started at the word as free to flow.

But I can answer when there's none that hears;
And now if I should weep, none sees my tears;
And in my soul the voice is rising strong,
That speaks in solitude, the voice of song.

Yes, I remember well

The land of many hues,

Whose charms what praise can tell,
Whose praise what heart refuse?

Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare,
Nor misty, are the mountains there,-
Softly sublime, profusely fair!

Up to their summits clothed in green,

And fruitful as the vales between,

They lightly rise,

And scale the skies,

And groves and gardens still abound;

For where no shoot

Could else take root,

The peaks are shelved and terraced round; Earthward appear, in mingled growth,

The mulberry and maize,—above

The trellised vine extends to both

The leafy shade they love.

Looks out the white-walled cottage here, The lowly chapel rises near;

Far down the foot must roam to reach

The lovely lake and bending beach;

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A little sail is loosed to take

The night wind's breath, and waft

The maiden and her bark away,

Across the lake and up the bay.
And what doth there that lady fair,
Upon the wavelet tossed?

Before her shines the evening star,

Behind her in the woods afar

The castle lights are lost.

What doth she there? The evening air
Lifts her locks, and her neck is bare;
And the dews, that now are falling fast,
May work her harm, or a rougher blast
May come from yonder cloud,
And that her bark might scarce sustain,
So slightly built,—and why remain,

And would she be allowed

To brave the wind and sit in the dew
At night on the lake, if her mother knew?

Her mother sixteen years before

The burthen of the baby bore ;

And though brought forth in joy, the day

So joyful, she was wont to say,

In taking count of after years,

Gave birth to fewer hopes than fears.

For seldom smiled

The serious child,

And as she passed from childhood, grew
More far-between those smiles, and few,
More sad and wild.

And though she loved her father well,

And though she loved her mother more,

Upon her heart a sorrow fell,

And sapped it to the core.

And in her father's castle, nought

She ever found of what she sought,

And all her pleasure was to roam
Among the mountains far from home,
And through thick woods, and wheresoe'er
She saddest felt, to sojourn there;
And oh! she loved to linger afloat

On the lonely lake in the little boat.

It was not for the forms,-though fair, Though grand they were beyond compare,—

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