Evan Maccoll
The Child of Promise
SHE died—as die the roses
On the ruddy clouds of dawn,
When the envious sun discloses
His flame, and morning’s gone.
She died—like snow glad-gracing
Some sea-marge fair, when, lo!
Rude waves, each other chasing,
Quick hide it ’neath their flow.
She died—like snow fair showering
Some sea-marge, when, anon,
In comes the wave devouring—
The beautiful is gone.
She died—as dies the glory
Of music’s sweetest swell:
She died—as dies the story
When the best is still to tell!
She died—as dies moon-beaming
When scowls the rayless wave;
She died—like sweetest dreaming
That hastens to its grave.
She died—and died she early;
Heaven wearied for its own.
As the dipping sun, my Mary,
Thy morning ray went down!
Glenorchy
TALK not to me of Tempe’s flowery vale,
With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view!
If of its charms he sung, I would right well
Believe the Grecian poet’s picture true.
What were his boasted groves in scent and hue
To lady-birches and the stately pine,
The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue?
Be his the laurel—the red heath be mine!
No faun nor dryad here I care to see,
More pleased by far to mark the bounding roe
Sport with his mate behind the forest tree;
Nor less the joy when in the glen below
Some milking Hebe sings her luinneag free,
All hearts enchanting by its graceful glow.