St. George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march, The warden kept his guard; Low humming, as he passed along, Some ancient border-gathering song. PROUD MAISIE. Proud Maisie is in the wood Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" --"When six braw[184] gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye." "Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady." [Footnote 184: Brave, fine.] PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war array, gentles and commons. Come from deep glen and from mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come when forests are rended; Come as the waves come when navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come; faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset! * * * * * PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?-- To thy chamber-window, sweet. The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heartbeats loud and fast: O! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last. VENICE. [From _Lines Written in the Euganean Hills_.]