Literary Gazette, 12th July 1823, Page 443
The lake was covered o'er with weeds,
Choked was our little rill,
There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still:
Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round;—
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound;
I spoke, and only my own words
Were echoed from the hill;
I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.
We met again by miracle:
Thou wert another one
Saved from this work of sin and death,—
I was not quite alone.
And then I heard the evil tale
Of guilt and suffering,
Till I prayed the curse of God might fall
On the false-hearted king.
I will not think on this,—for thou
Art saved, and saved for me!
And gallantly my little bark
Cuts through the moonlight sea.
There's not a shadow in the sky,
The waves are bright below;
I must not, on so sweet a night,
Think upon dark Glencoe.
If thought were vengeance, then its thought
A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.
But I am powerless and must flee;—
That e'er a time should come,
When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home!
This must not be,—yon soft moonlight
Falls on my heart like balm;
The waves are still, the air is hushed,
And I too will be calm.
Away! we seek another land
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine;
I shall forget the dark green hills
Of that which once was mine! L. E. L.