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Sweet Alice! why so moved?

'T is my infirmity: I am a fool, And should not go from home, so to expose A mind bereft of all becoming firmness.

Come to my bosom; thou hast but exposed That which the more endears thee to my heart; And, wert thou firmer, I should love thee less. But, hush! let me kiss off those falling tears From thy soft cheek. I hear thy brother coming.

Thy brother?

No; thine own,—thy brother Claude. Ha! Malcolm, too, is with him! this is well.

Fair Alice, welcome to our Highland mountains! Which, as your brother tells me, you admire, In spite of all their lone and silent barrenness.

He tells you true: our fertile Lowland dales,