They said Consumption's ruthless eye had mark'd me for her prey:
They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay;
They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright,
And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler's hectic blight.
Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven's own dew,
Think ye the parterre's wasting heat its freshness could renew?
And thus, 'mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun,
And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.
I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak,
And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek;
My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand:
Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov'd mountain land?
THE FAIRY'S SONG.
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE.
I am a wand'rer o'er earth and sea,
The trackless air has a path for me;
Ye may trace my steps on the heather green,
By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been;
Ye may hear my voice in the night wind's sigh,
Or the wood's low moan when a storm is nigh.
My task is to brighten the rainbow's hue,
To sprinkle the flowers with glit'ring dew,
To steep in crimson the evening cloud,
And wrap the hills in their misty shroud;
To track the course of a wandering star,
And marshal it back to its home afar.
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