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Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!—

Return to thy dwelling; all lonely, return; For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

night continued to be sullen and stormy; but morning rose as if refreshed by the rains. Even the Mucklestane-Moor, with its broad bleak swells of barren grounds, interspersed with marshy pools of water, seemed to smile under the serene influence of the sky, just as good-humour can spread a certain inexpressible charm over the plainest human countenance. The heath was in its thickest and deepest bloom. The bees, which the Solitary had added to his rural establishment, were abroad and on the wing, and filled the air with the murmurs of their industry. As the old