tentions,—and his infinite superiority in gentleness of disposition, and grace of manners, over the race of rude warriors with whom she lived? But her affection was of that quiet, timid, meditative character, which sought rather a reflected share in the happiness of the beloved object, than formed more presumptuous or daring hopes. A little Gaelic song, in which she expressed her feelings, has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy Alexander M'Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines:—
Wer't thou, like me, in life's low vale,
With thee how blest, that lot I'd share;
With thee I'd fly wherever gale
Could waft, or bounding galley bear.
But parted by severe decree,
Far different must our fortunes prove;
May thine be joy—enough for me
To weep and pray for him I love.
The pangs this foolish heart must feel,
When hope shall be for ever flown,
No sullen murmur shall reveal.
No selfish murmurs ever own.
