XIII.

THE SEVEN SISTERS;

OR,

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:
You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully.
The solitude of Binnorie!

II.

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

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III.

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.

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But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right—

Of your fair household, Father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed!

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

IV.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam :
Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

V.

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Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather;

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They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,

And let us die together.'

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

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They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

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VI.

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say those sisters fair
By faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

XIV.

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,

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Whose brows, the day that she was styled The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed? 10 Of man mature, or matron sage?

Or old man toying with his age?

I asked 'twas whispered; The device
To each and all might well belong:
It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

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1803.

XV.

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE

BUTTERFLY.

ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?

The bird that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam1 open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood ?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

1 See "Paradise Lost," Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.

A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 30 He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 35 A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!

April 18, 1802.

XVI.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND.

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ;-
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,

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