The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave
The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave;
He led poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea:
So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.
The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appeared some years ago in an English gazette.
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
I.
Bird of the lone and joyless night,
Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?
Attendant on the pale moon’s light,