memory in visions; Thou callest me not to thy side; but love is to me for a messenger. THERE IS STRIFE WITHIN ME, AND I TOSS TO BE AT LIBERTY; AND EVER THE CLOSER IT CLINGS, AND THE DELUSION IS GROWING TO ME AS A TREE. 'Anne, yellow-haired daughter of Donald, surely thou knowest not how it is with me— That it is old love, unrepaid, which has worn down from me my strength; That when far from thee, beyond many mountains, the wound in my heart was throbbing, Stirring, and searching for ever, as when I sat beside thee on the turf. NOW, THEN, HEAR ME THIS ONCE, IF FOR EVER I AM TO BE WITHOUT THEE, MY SPIRIT IS BROKEN—GIVE ME ONE KISS ERE I LEAVE THIS LAND! 'Haughtily and scornfully the maid looked upon me:— Never will it be work for thy fingers to unloose the band from my curls. Thou hast been absent a twelvemonth, and six were seeking me diligently; Was thy superiority so high that there should be no end of abiding for thee? HA! HA! HA! HAST THOU AT LAST BECOME SICK? IS IT LOVE THAT IS TO GIVE DEATH TO THEE? SURELY THE ENEMY HAS BEEN IN NO HASTE. 'But how shall I hate thee, even though towards me thou hast become cold? When my discourse is most angry concerning thy name in thine absence, Of sudden thine image, with its old dearness, comes visibly into my mind, And a secret voice whispers that love will yet prevail! AND I BECOME SURETY FOR IT ANEW, DARLING, AND IT SPRINGS UP AT THAT HOUR LOFTY AS A TOWER.' 'Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would of themselves justify Dr. Mackay (their Editor) in placing this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song.'—QUARTERLY REVIEW, NO. XC., JULY 1831.
