They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough; And few, amid the rural tribe, have time To number syllables and play with rhyme;

Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share

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The poet's rapture and the peasant's care?

Or the great labours of the field degrade,

With the new peril of a poorer trade?

From this chief cause these idle praises spring,

That themes so easy few forbear to sing;

For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask,

To sing of shepherds is an easy task:

The happy youth assumes the common strain, A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain;

With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer. But all, to look like her, is painted fair.

I grant indeed that fields and fiocks have charms For him that gazes or for him that farms;

But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace The poor laborious natives of the place.

And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray.

On their bare heads and dewy temples play;

While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts. Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts;

Then shall I dare these real ills to hide.

In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?

No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast,

Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast;

Where other cares than those the muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates;

By such examples taught, I paint the cot,

As Truth will paint it and as bards will not: For you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain,

To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; O'ercome by labour and bow'd down by time.

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?

Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread. By winding myrtles round your mined shed? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower. Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er Lends the light turf that warms the neighb'ring poor From thence a length of burning sand appears. Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears;

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy.

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Eeign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye:

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,

And to the ragged infant threaten war;

There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;

There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;

Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,

The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade. And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;

With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,

And a sad splendour vainly shines around.

So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn. Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn;

Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose.

While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,

Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,

With sullen woe displayed in every face;

Who far from civil arts and social fly,

And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.

Here too the lawless merchant of the main.

Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain;

Want only claimed the labour of the day.

But vice now steals his nightly rest away.

Where are the swains, who, daily labour done. With rural games played down the setting sun; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball. Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall;

While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,

Engaged some artful stripling of the throng.

And fell beueath him, foil'd, while far around,

Hoarse triumph rose and rocks returned the sound? Where now are these?—Beneath yon cliff they stand. To shew the frighted pinnace where to laud;

To load the ready steed with guilty haste.

To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste.

Or, when detected in their straggling course,

To foil their foes by cunning or by force;

Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand).

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To gain a lawless passport through the land.

Here, wancTring long, amid these frowning fields, I sought the simple life that nature yields:

Rapine and wrong and fear usurp'd her place.

And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;

Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe,

The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,

Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high. On the tost vessel bend their eager eye;

Which to their coast directs its vent'rons way.

Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey.

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,.. And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;

While still for flight the ready wing is spread: So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;

Fled from those shores where guilt and famine reign, And cry'd. Ah! hapless they who still remain; Who still remain to hear the ocean roar.

Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore,

Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;

When the sad tenant weeps from door to door. And begs a poor protection from the poor!

But these are scenes where nature's niggard hand-¹Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land;

Here is the fault, if here mankind complain Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain:

But yet in other scenes more fair in view.

Where plenty smiles—alas! she smiles for few— And those who taste not, yet behold her store,

Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,

The wealth around them makes them doubly poor-

Or will you deem them amply paid in health. Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? Go then! and see them rising with the sun,

Through a long course of daily toil to run;

See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat,

When the knees tremble and the temples beat;

Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come explore;

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See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;

Thro' fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew Then own that labour may as fatal be To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.

Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;

There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; Yet, urged along, and proudly loath to yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field;

Till long contending nature droops at last.

Declining health rejects his poor repast.

His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees. And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell. Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare. Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,

Nor mock the misery of stinted meal;

Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such As you who praise would never deign to touch.

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,

Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share.

Go look within, and ask if peace be there;

If peace be his—that drooping weary sire,

Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand!

Nor yet can time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease: For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except its own engage; Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see The bare arms broken from the withering tree, On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.

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lie once was chief in all the rustic trade, His steady hand the straightest furrow made;

Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,

He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs,. For now he journeys to his grave in pain;

The rich disdain him—nay, the poor disdain : Alternate masters now their slave command,

Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, And, when his age attempts its task in vain.

With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep. His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow O'er his white locks and bury them in snow.

When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:—

' Why do I live , when I desire to be At once from life and life's long labour free?

Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away. Without the sorrows of a slow decay:

I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind.

Nipt by the frost and shivering in the wind:

There it abides till younger buds come on, As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone.

Then, from the rising generation thrust.

It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.

'These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, Are others' gain, but killing cares to me:

To me the children of my youth are lords.

Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words:

Wants of their own demand their care, and who Feels his own want and succours others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go.

None need my help and none relieve my woe Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, And men forget the wretch they would not aid.*

Thus groan the old, till, by disease opprest,

They taste a final woe and then they rest.

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Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door: There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play. And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day— There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed.

Forsaken wives and mothers never wed;

Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

And crippled age with more than childhood fears: The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive,

Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below;

Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide. And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh. And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes.

Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; •Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance;

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure. Which real pain and that alone can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie.

Despised, neglected , left alone to die ?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched pave the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides. And naked rafters from the sloping sides:

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen. And lath and mud are all that lie between;

Save one dull pane, that coarsely patched gives way To the rade tempest, yet excludes the day:

Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;

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For kim no hand the cordial cup applies,

Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,

Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat.

All pride and business, bustle and conceit;

With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe.

With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go. He bids the gazing throng around him fly,

And carries fate and physic in his eye;

A potent quack, long versed in human ills.

Who first insults the victim whom he kills;

Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect. And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here.

He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;

In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies, Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;

And, some habitual queries hurried o'er.

Without reply, he rushes on the door:

His drooping patient, long inured to pain.

And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; He ceases now the feeble help to crave #

Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.

But ere his death some pious doubts arise,

Some simple fears, which 'bold bad' men despise;

Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove His title certain to the joys above:

For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls The holy stranger to these dismal walls.

And doth not he, the pious man, appear,

He, 'passing rich with forty pounds a year?'

Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock.

And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;

A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task. As much as God or man can fairly ask:

The rest he gives to loves and labours light.

To fields the morning and to feasts the night;

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None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide,

To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; And sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, And skiird at whist, devotes the night to play.

Then, while such honours bloom around his head, Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed.

To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?

Now once again the gloomy scene explore,

Less gloomy now: the bitter hour is. o'er.

The man of many sorrows sighs no more.—

Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below;

There lie the happy dead from trouble free,

And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.

No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer;

No more the farmer claims his humble bow:

Thou art his lord—the best of tyrants thou.

Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb.

The village children now their games suspend.

To see the bier that bears their ancient friend;

For he was one in all their idle sport.

And like a monarch ruled their little court;

The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball.

The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.

Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand.

While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor.

The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round.

Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The busy priest, detained by weightier care.

Defers his duty till the day of prayer;

And waiting long, the crowd retire diatrest.

To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest.

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PHCEBE DAWSON.

(From THE PARISH REGISTER.)

Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there,

When Phoebe Dawson gaily crossed the green,

In haste to see and happy to be seen:

Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired,

Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, And ease of heart her every look conveyed;

A native skill her simple robes expressed,

As with untutored elegance she dressed.

The lads around admired so fair a sight.

And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.

Admirers soon of every age she gained,

Her beauty won them and her worth retained;

Envy itself could no contempt display.

They wished her well, whom yet they wished away. Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;

But yet on Sunday-eve in freedom's hour.

With secret joy she felt that beauty's power;

When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.—

At length, the youth, ordained to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed;

With looks less timid made his passion known. And pleased by manners, most unlike her own;

Loud though in love and confident though young;

Fierce in his air and voluble of tongue;

By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,

He served the Squire, and brushed the coat he made: Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,

Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;

With her should years of growing love be spent. And growing wealth:—She sigh'd and looked consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the green,

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(Seen but by few, and blushing to be seen—

Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,)

Led by the lover, walked the silent maid;

Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile.

Toyed by each bank and trifled at each stile;

Where, as he painted every blissful view

And highly coloured what he strongly drew.

The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,

Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears.—

Thus passed th' allotted hours, till lingering late,

The lover loitered at the master's gate;

There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,

Till chidden—soothed—intreated—forced away!

He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,

And oft retire and oft return again;

When, if his teasing vext her gentle mind,

The grief assumed, compelled her to be kind!

For he would proof of plighted kindness crave.

That she resented first and then forgave,

And to his grief and penance yielded more.

Than his presumption had required before.—

Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain , refrain,

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black. And torn green gown loose hanging at her back. One who an infant in her arms sustains.

And seems in patience, striving with her pains; Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;

Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul and then she is calm again;— Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes.

And every step with cautious terror makes;

For not alone that infant in her arms,

But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms;

With water burthen'd_t then she picks her way. Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;

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Till, ia mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,

And deeply plunges in the adhesive ground;

Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,

While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes

For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,

Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows:

And now her path, but not her peace she gains.

Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains:

Her home she reaches, open leaves the door ,

And placing first her infant on the floor.

She bares her bosom to the wind and sits.

And sobbing struggles with the rising fits:

In vain, they come, she feels the inflated grief.

That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;

That speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest.

Or the sad laugh that cannot be represt.

The neighbour matron leaves her wheel and flies

With all the aid her poverty supplies;

Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys,

Not led by profit, not allured by praise;

And waiting long, till these contentions cease,

She speaks of comfort and departs in peace.

Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid, She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

But who this child of weakness, want, and care? 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compassion first assailed her gentle heart,

For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: 'And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the sex to love;'—

But ah! too soon his looks success declared, Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:

If present, railing, till he saw her pained; If absent, spending what their labours gained:

Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,

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And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. Then fly tempation, youth; resist, refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

ISAAC ASHTOBD.

(From the parish registek).

Next to these ladies, but in naught allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ash ford, died.

Noble he was, contemning all things mean. His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene;

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;

At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face: Yet while the serious thought his soul approved. Cheerful he seem'd and gentleness he loved: To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,

And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind;

Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,

And gave allowance where he needed none;

Good he refused with future ill to buy,

Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind. To miss one favour, which their neighbours find); Tet far was he from stoic-pride removed;

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,

And his old neighbour for oifence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek. Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride, were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, Who, in their base contempt, the great derive; Nor pride in learning,—though my clerk agreed. If fate should call him, Ahsford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals, few;

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But if that spirit in his soul had place,

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,

In sturdy boys to -virtuous labours train'd:

Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;

Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defy'd,—

In fact. a noble passion, misnamed pride,

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim;

Christian and countryman was all with him;

True to his church he came, no Sunday-shower Kept him at home in that important hour;

Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect.

By the strong glare of their new light direct;

On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,

But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.'

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain;

Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in thai his comfort and his pride.

At length, he found, when seventy years were run, His strength departed and his labour done;

When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more. But lost his wife and saw his children poor:

'Twas then a spark of—say not discontent—

Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:

'Kind are your laws, ('tis not to be denied).

That in yon house for ruin'd age provide.

And they are just;—when young, we give you all. And for assistance in our weakness call.—

Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,

To join your poor and eat the parish bread?

But yet I linger, loath with him to feed.

Who gains his plenty by the sons of need—

He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And guages stomachs with a anxious look:

On some old master I could well depend,

See him with joy and thank him as a friend;

But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances, who at night may die:

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Yet help me, heaven! and let me not complain Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain.'

Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew; Daily he placed the workhouse in his view; But came not there, for sudden was his fate, He dropped expiring at his cottage gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat and sigh for Isaac there;

I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honoured head; No more that awful glance on playful wight. Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight. To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,

Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer. Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there:— But he is blest, and I lament no more,

A wise good man contented to be poor.

STOBY OP A BETROTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. «

{From the borough)

Yes, there are real mourners; I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;

Attention through the day her duties claimed.

And to be useful as resigned she aimed;

Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;

But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep.

She sought her place to meditate and weep:

Then to her mind was all the past displayed.

That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid;

For then she thought on one regretted youth.

Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;

In every place she wandered where they'd been. And sadly-sacred held the parting scene Where last for sea he took his leave—that place With double interest would she nightly trace;

For long the courtship was, and he would say

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Each time he sailed, 'This once , and then the day; Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went, He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;

White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort men at sea can know,

Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow;

For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told How he should guard against the climate's cold. Yet saw not danger, dangers he'd withstood. Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek. And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he felt the danger, felt the pain.

With grievous symptoms he could not explain.

He called his friend, aud prefaced with a sigh A lover's message—'Thomas, I must die;

Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go 1 if not, this trifle take,

And say, till death I wore it for her sake.

Yes, I must die—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on I Give me one look before my life be gone;

Oh, give me that! and let me not despair—

One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer.'

He had his wish, and more. I will not paint _eThe lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint—

With tender fears she took a nearer view.

Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;

He tried to smile, and half-succeeding, said,

'Yes, I must die'—and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away;

With him she prayed; to him his Bible read,

Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head; She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,

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Apart she sighed, alone she shed the tear;

Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;

They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think. Yet said not so—'Perhaps he will not sink.'

A sudden brightness in his look appeared,

A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;

She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,

And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;

Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,

The friendly many and the favourite few;

Nor one that day did he to mind recall,

But she has treasured, and she loves them all.

When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people—death has made them dear.

He named his friend, but then his hand she pressed, And fondly whispered, 'Thou must go to rest.'

'I go,' he said, but as he spoke she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;

Then gazed affrightened, but she caught a last,

A dying look of love, and all was past.

She placed a decent stone his grave above,

Neatly engraved, an offering of her love:

For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed.

Awake alike to duty and the dead.

She would have grieved had they presumed to spare The least assistance—'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,

Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

But if observer pass, will take her round,

And careless seem, for she would not be found;

Then go again, and thus her hour employ.

While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

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THE ANCIENT MANSION.

'Come lead me, lassie, to the shade Where willows grow beside the brook;

For well I know the sound it made. When dashing o'er the stony rill; It murmur'd to St Osyth's Mill.'

The lass replied—'The trees are fled. They've cut the brook a straighter bed: No shades the present lords allow, The miller only murmurs now;

The waters now his mill forsake.

And form a pond they call a lake.'

'Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on.

And to the holy water bring;

A cup is fastened to the stone.

And I would taste the healing spring. That soon its rocky cist forsakes,

And green its mossy passage makes.'

' The holy spring is tum'd aside,

The arch is gone, the stream is dried; The plough has levell'd all around, And here is now no holy ground.'

'Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide,

To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak,

Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide. And part the church-way lane o'erlook. A boy, I climbed the topmost bough.

And I would feel its shadow now.

'Or, lassie, lead me to the west.

Where grew the elm trees thick and tall, Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest-

Deliberate birds, and prudent all;

Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, But they're a social multitude.'

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'The rooks are shot, the trees are fell'd, And nest and nursery all expell'd;

With better fate the giant-tree, Old Bulmer's Oak, is gone to sea. The church-way walk is now no more. And men must other ways explore:

Though this indeed promotion gains, For this the park's new walls contains; And here I fear we shall not meet A shade—although, perchance, a seat?

'Ü then, my laesie, lead the way

To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn: That something holds, if we can pay—

Old David is our living kin;

A servant once, he still preserves His name, and in his office serves!'

'Alas! that mine should be the fate Old David's sorrows to relate:

But they were brief; not long before He died, his office was no more, The kennel stands upon the ground.

With something of the former sound!'

'0 then,' the grieving Man replied, 'No farther, lassie, let me stray;

Here's nothing left of ancient pride.

Of what was grand, of what was gay; But all is changed, is lost, is sold.

All, all that's left, is chilling cold,

I seek for comfort here in vain;

Then lead me to my cot again!'

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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770—1850).

ALICE PELL.

The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threat'ning clouds tlie moon had drown'd; When suddenly I seem'd to hear A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound, and more and more:

It seem'd to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy call'd out.

He stopp'd his horses at the word;

But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

Nor aught else like it could be heard.

The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast The horses scamper'd through the] rain;

And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,

'What can it be, this piteous moan?'

And there a little girl I found.

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

'My cloak!' the word was last and first, Aud loud and bitterly she wept.

As if her very heart would burst;

And down from off the chaise she leapt.

'What ails you, child?' she sobb'd, 'Look here!' I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er Prom any garden scarecrow dangled.

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'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the cloak; A wretched, wretched rag indeed!

' And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?' 'To Durham,' answer'd she half wild-Then come with me into the chaise.'

She sate like one past all relief;

Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief Could never, never, have an end.

'My child, in Durham do you dwell?' She check'd herself in her distress. And said, 'My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong.'

And then, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tatter'd cloak.

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and sitting by my side.

As if she'd lost her only friend,

She wept, nor would be pacified..

Up to the tavern door we post;

Of Alice and her grief I told;

And I gave money to the host.

To buy a new cloak for the old.

'And let it be of duffil gray,

As warm a cloak as man can sell!'

Proud creature was she the next day. The little orphan, Alice Fell!

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BEGQAES.

She had a tall man's height, or more;

No bonnet screened her from the heat;

A long drab-coloured cloak she wore,

A mantle reaching to her feet;

What other dress she had I could not know;

Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,

Such figure had I never seen:

Her face was of Egyptian brown:

Fit person was she for a queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files:

Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles.

Before me begging did she stand.

Pouting out sorrows like a sea;

Grief after grief;—on English land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see; 'a weed of glorious feature!'

I left her, and pursued my way;

And soon before me did espy

A pair of little boys at play,

Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand.

Wreathed round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown,

With leaves of laurel stuck about:

And they both followed up and down.

Each whooping with a merry shout:

Two brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo!

Each ready with a plaintive whine;

Said I, 'Not half an hour ago

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Your mother has had alms of mine.'

'That cannot be,' one answerd, 'She is dead.'

'Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread.'

'She has been dead, Sir, many a day.'

'Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;

It was your mother, as I say—'

And in the twinkling of an eye,

' Come, come!' cried one; and, without more ado,

Off to some other play they both together flew.

LOUISA.

I met Lousia in the shade;

And, having seen that lovely maid,

Why should I fear to say

That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;

And down the rocks can leap along,

Like rivulets in May?

And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise;

That come and go with endless play, And ever as they pass away,

Are hidden in her eyes.

She loves her fire, her cottage home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak;

And, when against the wind she strains, Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek!

Take all that's mine ' beneath the moon,' If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

When up she winds along the brook, To hunt the waterfalls.

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LTTCY.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid where there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye!

—Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

I teavell'd among unkown men.

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time, for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine is too the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

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I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake, beneath the trees.

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way.

They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw 1 at a glance.

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:— A Poet could not but be gay.

In such a jocund company;

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

And then my heart with pleasure fills. And dances with the daffodils.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OP DELIGHT.

She was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes are stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn;

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From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay.

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free.

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrow, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.

WE ABE SEVEIf.

A simple child That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb.

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad;

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Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

—Her beauty made me glad.

'Sisters and brothers, little maid.

How many may you be?'

'How many? Seven in all,' she said.

And wondering looked at me.

'And where are they? I prayquot; you tell.'

She answered, 'Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell.

And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.'

'You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell.

Sweet maid, how this may be?'

Then did the little maid reply,

'Seven boys and girls are we:

Two of us in the church-yard lie.

Beneath the church-yard tree.'

'You run about, my little maid.

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.'

' Their graves are green, they may be seen,'

The little maid replied,

'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit.

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground 1 sit—

I sit and sing to them.

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And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer.

And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid; And when the grass was dry.

Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go.

And he lies by her side.'

'How many are you then,' said I,

'If they two are in Heaven?'

The little maiden did reply,

' O master! we are seven.'

'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!'

'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will. And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'

TO A SKY-LABK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into thee clouds!

Singing, singing.

With all the heavens about thee ringing,

Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind!

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I have -walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a fairy,

Up to thee would T fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine;

Up with me, up with me, high and high, To thy banqueting-place in the sky!

Joyous as morning.

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest; And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy liver!

With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praise to the Almighty giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both! Hearing thee, or else some other.

As merry a brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on, By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.

TO THE CUCKOO.

0 blithe new-comer! 1 have heard,

1 hear thee and rejoice:

0 Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice ?

While I am lying on the grass. Thy loud note smites my ear!

From hill to hill it seems to pass. At once far off and near!

1 hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers;

And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours.

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Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.

The same who in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain.

And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place;

That is fit home for thee!

RUTH.

When Ruth was left half desolate Her father took another mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw, And from that oaten pipe could draw. All sounds of wind and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods.

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Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own

Herself her own delight:

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay.

She passed her time; and in this way.

Grew up to woman's height.

There came a youth from Georgia's shore— A military casque he wore With splendid feathers drest;

He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: Ah no! he spake the English tongue, And bore a soldier's name;

And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy.

He cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek.

In finest tones the youth could speak. —While he was yet a boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun. And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely youth! I guess

The panther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he;

And when he chose to sport and play,

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought; And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear;

Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade. Were perilous to hear.

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He told of girls, a happy rout!

Who quit their fold with dance and shout,

Their pleasant Indian town,

To gather strawberries all day long;

Returning with a choral song

When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants divine and strange.

That every hour their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues!

With budding, fading, faded flowers.

They stand the wonders of the bowers Prom morn to evening dews.

He told of the Magnolia, spread High as a cloud, high over head! The cypress and her spire,

—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire.

The youth of green savannahs spake. And many an endless, endless lake.

With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds.

And then he said, 'How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,

Still wandering with an easy mind To build a household fire, and find A home in every glade!

' What days and what sweet years! Ah me ï

Our life were life indeed, with thee

So passed in quiet bliss,

And all the while,' said he, 'to know

That we were in a world of woe,

On such an earth as this!'

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And then he sometimes interwove Dear thoughts about a father's love, ' For theresaid he, ' are spun Around the heart such tender ties,

That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun.

' Sweet Ruth' and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear;

Or run, my own adopted bride,

A sylvan huntress at my side.

And drive the flying deer!

' Beloved Ruth!'—No more he said.

Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed A solitary tear:

She thought again—and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying derr.

'And now, as fitting is and right.

We in the church our faith will plight,

A husband and a wife.'

Even so they did; and I may say

That to sweet Ruth that happy day.

Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink Delighted all the while to think That, on those lonesome floods. And green savannahs, fhe should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told,

This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And with his dancing crest So beautiful, through savage lands Had roamed about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the west.

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The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky,

Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth—so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seemed allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers;

The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent:

For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known;

Deliberately, and undeceived.

Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame Were thus impaired, and he became The slave of low desires:

A man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires.

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And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the maiden, day and night, Had loved her, night and mora:

What could he less than love a maid Whose heart with so much nature played? So kind and so forlorn!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, ' O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain. Encompassed me on every side When first, in confidence and pride, I crossed the Atlantic main.

' It was a fresh and glorious world, A banner bright that was unfurled Before me suddenly;

I looked upon those hills and plains. And seemed as if let loose from chains To live at liberty.

' But wherefore speak of this ? For now, Sweet Ruth! with thee, I know not how, I feel my spirit burn—

Even as the east when day comes forth; And, to the west, and south, and north, The morning doth return.'

Full soon that purer mind was gone;

No hope, no wish remained, not one,_

They stirred him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give. And once again he wished to live As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore:

But, when they thither came, the youth Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth Could never find him more.

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'God help thee, Ruth!'—Such pains she hacT

That she in half a year was mad,

And in a prison housed:

And there she sang tumultuous songs,

By recollection of her wrongs,

To fearful passion roused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May,

—They all were with her in her cell; And a wild brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, There came a respite to her pain;

She from her prison fled;

But of the vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free;

And, coming tó the banks of Tone,

There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rock and pools. And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her.

A barn her Winter bed supplies;

But, till the warmth of Summer skies And Summer days is gone,

(And all do in this tale agree)

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree. And other home hath none.

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An innocent life, yet far astray!

And Ruth will long before her day,

Be broken down and old.

Sore aches she needs must have! but less

Of mind, than body's wretchedness.

From damp, and rain, and cold.

If she is pressed by want of food, She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road-side;

And there she begs at one steep place, Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten pipe of hers is mute, Or thrown away: but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers;

This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild—

Such small machinery as she turned Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned A young and happy child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Bnth! in hallowed mould Thy corpse shall buried be;

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing.

A Christian psalm for thee.

LAODAMIA.

'With sacrifice, before the rising moon Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal gods, mid shades forlorn

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Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required:

Celestial pity I again implore;—

Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!'

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. Her countenance brightens--and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?—O joy!

What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?

His vital presence—his corporeal mould?

It is—if sense deceive her not—'tis he !

And a god leads him—winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake— and touched her with his wand That calms all fear,' Such grace hath crowned thy prayer Laodamia! that at Jove's command Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!'

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp!

Again that consummation she essayed;

But unsubstantial form eludes hor grasp

As often as that eager grasp was made.

The phantom parts—but parts to re-unite,

And re-assume his place before her sight.

'Protesilans, lo! thy guide is gone!

Confirm, I pray, thy vision with thy voice:

This is our palace,—yonder is thy throne;

Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon,—aud blest a sad abode.'

' Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave His gifts imperfect;—spectre though I be,

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I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;

But in reward of thy fidelity,

And something also did my worth obtain; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

'Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die; but me the threat did not withhold: A generous cause a victim did demand;

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain.'

'Supreme of heroes—bravest, noblest, beat! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore:

Thou found'st—and I forgive thee—here thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart

' But thou, though capable of sternest deed,

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed That thou should'sfc cheat the malice of the grave: Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Thesaalian air.

'No spectre greets me,—no vain shadow this!

Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side!

Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day, a second time thy bride!'

Jove frowned in heaven; the consious Parcae threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

'This visage tells thee that my doom is past:

Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast And surely as they vanish.—Earth destroys Those raptures duly—Erebus disdains:

Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains.

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'Be taught, 0 faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult of the soul; The fervour—not ungovernable love.

Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—'

'Ah, wherefore?—Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,

And jEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.

'The gods to us are merciful—and they

Yet further may relent: for mightier far

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distrest.

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.

'But if thou goest, I follow—' 'Peace!' he said— She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;

In his deportment, shape, and mien , appeared Elysian beauty—melancholy grace —

Brought from a pensive, though a happy place.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure;

No fears to beat away—no strife to heal—

The past unsighed for, and the future sure;

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued:

Of all that is most beauteous—imaged there

In happier beauty; more pullucid streams,

An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested which purpureal gleams:

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

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Yet there the soul shall enter -which hath earned

That privilege by virtue.—' 111said he,

' The end of man's existence I discerned,

Who from ignoble games and revelry

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight

While tears were thy best pastime,—day and night:

'And while my youthful peers, before my eyes,

(Each hero following his peculiar bent)

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports,— or, seated in the tent,

Chieftains and kings in council were detained;

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

'The wished-for wind was given:—I then revolved Our future course, upon the silent sea;

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,—

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

'Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang

When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!

On thee too fondly did my memoiy hang.

And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—

The paths which we had trod—these fountains—flowers;

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,

'Behold they tremble!—haughty their array.

Yet of their number no one dares to die f—

In soul 1 swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred:—but loftly thought,

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

'And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow:

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest re-union in the shades below.

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized;

Be thy affections raised and solemnized.

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'Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object:—Love was given,

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end:

For this the passion to excess was driven—

That self might be annulled; her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.'

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!

Kound the dear shade she would have clung—'tis vain t

The hours are past,—too brief had they been years;

And him no mortal effort can detain:

Swift, toward the realms that know no earthly day,

He through the portal takes his silent way—

And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.

By no weak pity might the gods be moved;

She who thus perished not without the crime Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved,

Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime,

Apart from happy ghosts—that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

Yet tears to human suffering are due;

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,

As fondly he believes.—Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,

The trees¹ tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth a«d blight!

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HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring ot water, about five miles from Richmond, in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second part of the following poem gt; _fwhich monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

The Kniglit had ridden down from Wensley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's clond:

He turned aside towards a vassal's door,

And 'Bring another horse!' he cried aloud.

'Another horse!'—That shout the vassal heard ,

And saddled his best steed, a comely gray;

Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;

The horse and horseman are a happy pair;

But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,

There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall,

That as they galloped made the echoes roar;

But horse and man are vanished, one and all;

Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,

Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:

Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind.

Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;

But breath and eyesight fail; and one by one.

The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?

The bugles that so joyfully were blown?

—This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;

Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.

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The poor hart toils along the mountain-side;

I -will not stop to tell how far he fled;

Nor will I mention by what death he died;

But now the knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;

He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither smacked his whip, nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned ,

Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat:

Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the hart was lying stretched:

His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,

And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched, The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,

(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west.

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast. Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, 'Till now Such sight was never seen by living eyes:

Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow Down to the very fountain where he lies.

'I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot.

And a small arbour, made for rural joy;

'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that care coy.

'A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell!

And they, who do make mention of the same From this day forth, shall call it Haut-leap Well.

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'And, gallant stag! to make thy praises known, Another monument shall here be raised;

Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

'And, in the summer time when days are long, I will come hither with my paramour;

And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song, We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

'Till the foundations of the mountain fail My mansion with its arbour shall endure;

The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'

Then home he went, and left the hart, stone-dead. With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. —Soon did the knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living Well;

Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared. And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long. Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour;

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time. And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—

But there is matter for a second rhyme.

And I to this would add another tale.

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pakt secokd.

The moving accident is not my trade,

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:

'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,

To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair. It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square; And one, not four yards distant, near a Well.

What this imported I could ill divine: And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line,

The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head; Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green; So that you just might say, as then I said,

'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'

I looked upon the hill both far and near.

More doleful place did never eye survey;

It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost.

When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow; —him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired.

The shepherd stopped, and that same story told quot;Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed ' A jolly placesaid he, 'in times of old! But something ails it now; the spot is curst.

'You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood— Some say that they are beeches, others elms— These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms!

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'The arbour does its own condition tell;

You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ;

But as to the great lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

'There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,

Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,

This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

'Some say that here a murder has been done.

And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,

That it was all for that unhappy hart.

'What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,

Are but three bounds—and look. Sir, at this last —O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

' For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;

And in my simple mmd we cannot tell What cause the hart might have to love this place, And come and make his deathbed near the Well.

'Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,

Lulled by this fountain in the snmmer-tide;

This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side.

' In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing;

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

'But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone;

So will be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.'

'Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well;

Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:

This beast not unobserved by nature fell;

His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

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'The being, that is in the clouds and air,

That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

'The pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before.

This is no common waste, no common gloom; But nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her hloom.

'She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day.

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

' One lesson , shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals. Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.¹

LINES COMPOSED A PEW MILES ABOVE TINTEBN ABBEY.

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length

Of five long Winters ! and again 1 hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain springs

With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

Which on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

The wild green landscape. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

Of sportive wood run wiH; these pastoral farms.

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem,

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Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forma,

Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye;

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them.

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet.

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust.

To them I may have owed another gift.

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood.

In which the burthen of the mystery.

In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood.

In which the affections gently lead us on,—

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—

In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the woods.

How often has my spirit turned to thee! ,

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And now, •with gleams of half-extinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity.

The picture of the mind revives again;

While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope.

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among the hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days.

And their glad animal movements all gone by,)

To me was all.—1 cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rook. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood.

Their colours and their forms, were then to me And appetite: a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any'interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past And all its aching joys are now no more.

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts ';

Have followed, for such loss, I'would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling in the light of settiag suns,

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And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create. And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

Nor perch mce.

If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me, here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend. My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May 1 behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Hash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life.

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain winds be free

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To blow against thee; and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief.

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me.

And these my exhortations! nor, perchance—

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy -voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence—wilt thou then forget

TÜat on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of nature, hither came.

Unwearied in that service; rather say

With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget.

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs.

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

1798..

YARROW VISITED.

september, 1814.

And is this Yarrow?—This the stream Of which my fancy cherished So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished!

O that some minstrel's harp were_i near, To utter notes of gladness.

And chase this silence from the air. That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings;

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Nor have these eyes by greener hilla

Been soothed, in all my -wanderings.

And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted;

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,

Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused,

A tender hazy brightness;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous flower

Of Yarrow vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound

On which the herd is feeding:

And haply from this crystal pool,

Now peaceful as the morning,

The water-wraith ascended thrice,

And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings

The haunt of happy lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,

The leafy grove that covers;

And pity sanctifies the verse

That paints by strength of sorrow.

The unconquerable strength of love;

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou, that didst appear so fair

To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation:

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

A softness still and holy;

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The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds

Rich groves of lofty statures,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp-

Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves.

Behold a ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's towers,

Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom ,,

For sportive youth to stray in;

For manhood to enjoy his strength;

And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss

It promises protection

Of tender thoughts that nestle there,

The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet on this autumnal day,

The wild wood's fruits to gather,

And on my true love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather!

And what if I enwreathed my own!

'Twere no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.

I see—but not by sight alone,

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee!

A ray of fancy still survives—

Her sunshine plays upon thee!

Thy ever youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights.

They melt—and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, no more is mine—

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Sad thought, which I could banish,

But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow!

Will dwell with me to heightened joy.

And cheer my mind in sorrow.

ODE TO DUTY.

Steen daughter of the voice of God!

O Duty! if that name thou love.

Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who; in love and truth.

Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do thy work, and know it not:

Long may the kindly impulse last!

And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold.

Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom , and untried;

No sport of every random gust,

Yet being to myself a guide,

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Too blindly have reposed my trust:

And oft, when in my heart was heard

Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul.

Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought:

Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance desires:

My hopes no more must change their name;

I long for a repose which ever is the same-

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear

The Godhead's most beniguant grace;

Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power!

1 call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour;

Oh, let my weakness have an end!

Give unto me, made lowly wise,

The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give;

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

ODE.

intimations op immortality fbom regollection s of early childhood.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

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Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshnesg of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore,—

Turn whereso'er I may By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes.

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song.

And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong;

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the echoes through the mountains throng.

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.

And all the land is gay;

Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, ,

And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;—

Thou child of joy Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,

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My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all Oh evil day! if I were sullen While the earth itself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the children are pulling.

On every side.

In a thousand valleys far and wide.

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the bate leaps up on his mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! But there's a tree, of many, one,

A single field which I have looked upon ,

Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The soul that rises with us, our life's star.

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows_r

He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest. And by the vibion splendid Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away.

And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind.

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And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A sii-yeara' darling of a pigmy size!

See where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the persons, down to palsied age, That life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty prophet! seer blest!

On whom those,truths do rest.

Which we are toiling all our lives to find.

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In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by;

Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. Why with such earnest pain dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Heavy a frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live.

That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction; not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The songs of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things.

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised.

High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections.

Which, be they what they may.

Are yet the fountain light of all our day.

Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake

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61i

To perish never;

Which neither liatlessness, nor mad endeavour.

Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be.

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.

Can in a moment travel thither.

And see the children sport upon the shore.

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds , sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Te that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, or glory in the^flower;

We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be,

In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and'groves,

Think not of any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might:

I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret.

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

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The innocent brightness of a uew-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

SONNETS.

it is a beauteous evening.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;

The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:

Listen! the mighty being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest 'in Abraham's bosom' all the year;

And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

the would is too much with us.

The world is too much with us; late and soon , Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers:

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For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on thia pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have eight of Proteus coming from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.

milton.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

_ 1802.

SAMUEL TAYLOE COLERIDGE (1772—1834). THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

in seven parts,

part i.

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three;

'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide.

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May'st hear the merry din.'

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The 'Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old sea-faring man, and constrained to hear his tale.

music; but the Ma- ,_T ,, . , , . „ ,

riner continueth his Nodding their heads before her goes

tale. The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner.

' And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.

The ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.

The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.

The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal

He holds him with his skinny hand,

' There was a shipquoth he.

'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still.

And listens like a three years' child; The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

' The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared , Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

The sun came up upon the left.

Out of the sea came he;

And he shone bright, andjon the right Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon—' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall.

Red as a rose is she;

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With sloping masts and dripping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head ,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow.

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy cliffs Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—

The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around;

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat.

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow.

And every day, for food or play.

Came to the mariners' hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud.

It perched for vespers nine;

The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing was to be seen.

Till a great seabird, called the Albatross, came through the snowfog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen , and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.

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Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmered the white moon-shine.'

The ancient Mariner ' God save thee, ancient Mariner,

inhospitably killeth From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

the pioua bird of look'st thou so?'—'With my cross bow

good omen. ^J

I shot the Albatross.

pakt ii.

The sun now rose upon the right:

Out of the sea came he.

Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.

And the good south-wind still blew behind. But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo!

His shipmates cry And I had done a hellish thing, out against the an- y. _woul₍l _WOrk 'em woe:

kiUing thequot;bird of ^aU averred, I had killed the bird good luck. That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!

But when the fog Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, cleared off, they fhe glorious sun uprist:

ih^ma^r^t Then all averred, I had killed the bird ves accomplices in That brought the fog and mist.

the crime. 'Twaa right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze con- The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

tinues; the ship en- The furrow followed free;

ters the Pacific -yy-g _were the first that ever burst

Ocean, and sails - . -i .

northward, even till ^to that silent sea.

it reaches the Line.

. , v Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down , The ship hath been / , ,

suddenly becalmed. Twas sad as sad could be;

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And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where. And the Albatross

And all the boards did shrink; begins to be avenged.

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.

And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning

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The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.

Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

PABT III.

Theke passed a weary time. Each throiit Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time !

How glazed each weary eye!

The ancient Mariner When looking westward, I beheld

beholdeth a sign in . . ,i__

the element afar off, ^ sometlung in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,

And then it seemed a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged, and tacked, and veered.

At its nearer ap- With throats unslaked, with black lips baked , proach, it seemeth We could nor laugh nor wail;

hira to he a ship and ^ utter drought all dumb we stood :

at a dear ransom he = ^b

freeth his speech I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

from the honds of And cried, A sail, a sail!

thirst.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked . Agape they heard me call:

A flash of joy; Gramercy! they for joy did grin,

And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.

And horror follows. See! see! I cried she tacks no more!

For can it be a s/iip Hither to work us weal,—

^{a breeze}.

tide? She steadies with upright keel!

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The western wave was all a-flame.

The day was well nigh done,

Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun.

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, It scemeth him but (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) theskeletonofasliip.

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face.

Alas! thought I, and my heart beat loud,

How fast she nears and nears!

Are those her sails that glance in the sun.

Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate?

And is that Woman all her crew?

Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate?

And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton-ship.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy. The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she. Who thicks man's blood with cold.

Like vessel, like crew!

The naked hulk alongside came.

And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) win-neth the ancient Mariner.

The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

No twilight within the courts of the Sun.

We listened and looked sideways up; Fear at my heart, as at a cup.

At the rising of the moon.

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My life-blood seemed to sip.

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white?

From the sails the dew did drip—

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The homed moon, with one bright star

Within the nether tip.

One after another. One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang.. And cursed me with his eye.

His shipmates drop ^{Four time8 flft}y ^living ^men'

down dead. (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropped down one by one.

But Life-in-Death The souls did from their bodies fly,—

begins her work on ipjjey fl_e(j to bliss or woe!

the ancient Manner. , , , , ,

And every soul, it passed me by,

Like the whizz of my cross-bow!¹

paet iv.

The Wedding-Guest '1 fear thee, ancient Mariner!

feareth that a Spirit j fear thee and thy glittering eye!

is talking to him. fljou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand, so brown.'—

But the ancient Ma- 'Pear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!

0°hisTdiiy m, ^{This bod}y ^droP^{t not down}-

and proceedeth to

relate his horrible Alone, alone, all, all alone,

penance. Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

creatures¹quot;'^¹¹ the^{6 The man}y ^men' ⁸⁰ beautiful!

calm. And they all dead did lie:

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And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea, And envieth that

And drew my eyes away; they should live, and

t i i j , , so many he dead.

I looked upon the rotting deck,

And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close.

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky ,

Lay like a load on my weary eye.

And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Bat the curse liveth

Nor rot nor reek did they: ^^{im the e}^^e

____, i n of the dead men.

The look with which they looked on me

Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high;

But oh! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye!

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse ,

And yet I could not die.

The moving moon went up the sky, _In loneliness

And nowhere did abide: and fixedness he

Softly she was going up, yearneth towards the

^J amp; amp; r» journeying moon,

And a star or two beside— _alla the stars that

still sojourn, yet

still move onward; and every where the hlue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.

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Her beams bemocked the sultry main. Like April hoar-frost spread;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red

By the light of the Beyond the shadow of the ship,

God's ïreSfof ^{1 watched the} water-snakes:

the great calm. They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire;

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

Their beauty and their happiness.

' He blesseth them in his heart.

O happy living things!, no tongue Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

The spell begins to The selfsame moment I could pray; treak. And from my neck so free

The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

part v.

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,

Beloved from pole to pole!

To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

By grace of the holy

Mother, the ancient -1,1,, .11,

Mariner is refreshed ^{The slll}y buckets on the deck,

with rain. That had so long remained,

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I dreamt that they were filled with dew;

And when I woke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,

My garments all were dank;

Sure I had drunken in my dreams,

And still my body drank.

d moved, and could not feel my limbs:

I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep.

And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!

And a hundred fire-flags sheen,

To and fro they were hurried about!

And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge;

And the rain poured down from one black cloud;

The moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side:

Like waters shot from some high crag.

The lightning fell with never a jag,

A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,

Yet now the ship moved on!

Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan.

lie heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.

The bodies of the ships's crew are inspired , and the ship moves on;

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They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;

It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved onj

Yet never a breeze up blew;

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes.

Where they were wont to do;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—

We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope. But he said nought to me.'

^B/ⁿii,^{n0t 1)7tlie}^v.¹³ 'I f^ear thee, ancient Mariner!'

of the men, nor by

demons of earth or ⁴Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!

middle air, but by 'Twas not those aoula that fled in pain,

mgiue spirite^sent ^{Which to their cor8es came a}g^ail1'

down by the invoca- But a troop of spirits blest:

tion of the guardian

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast;

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, ,flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun;

Slowly the sounds came back again. Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 1 heard the sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

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75-

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song,

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep.

From the land of mist and snow. The Spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go.

The sails at noon left off their tune. And the ship stood still also.

The sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean:

But in a minute she 'gan stir.

With a short uneasy motion-Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound:

It flung the blood into my head.

And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,

I have not to declare;

But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.

The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

That Polar Spirit's fellow demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the

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other, that penance long and heavy for the ancientMariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.

The Spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow,

He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.'

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dew:

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do.'

pakt vi.

fibst voice.

' But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing—

What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?'

second voice.

' Still as a slave before bis lord, The ocean hath no blast;

His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.'

The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power caaseth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

piest voice.

'But why drives on that ship so fast. Without or wave or wind?'

second voice.

'The air is cut away before. And closes from behind.

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Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!

Or we shall be belated:

For slow and alow that ship^willfgo,

When the Mariner's trance is, abated.'

I woke, and vie were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

'Twas night, cal m night, the moon was high: ^th^ ¹J^{arlner awak}®³» J , , , iind his penance be-

X110 dea-cl men stood to^etlier, adgw

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

All fixed on me their stony eyes,

That in the moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died Had never passed away:

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

The supernatural motion is retarded;

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green,

And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen—

The curse is finally expiated.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread.

And having once turned round walks on , And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring-It mingled strangely with my fears. Yet it felt like a welcoming.

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Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

Yet she sailed softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—

On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Ma- Qh! dream of joy! is this indeed riner beholdeth bis _The j- _hfc._{house t} j _see?

native country. ⁰ '......

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,

And I with sobs did pray—

0 let me be awake, my God!

Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness. The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,

Till rising from the same.

The angelie spirits Full many shapes, that shadows were,

leave the dead _T . ,

j₎₀jj_es In crimson colours came.

And appear in their A little distance from the prow own forms of light. Those crimson shadows were:

1 turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land.

Each one a lovely light.

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This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart—

No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the pilot's cheer;

My head was turned perforce away,

And I saw a boat appear.

The pilot and the pilot's boy,

I heard them coming fast:

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice:

I tis the hermit good!

He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

pakt vii.

This hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, ' Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair. That signal made but now?'

'Strange, by my faith!' the hermit said— 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere!

I never saw aught like to them,

Unless perchance it were

The Henuit of the wood.

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

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Brown skeletons of leaves that lag

My forest-brook along;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below.

That eats the she-wolfs young.'

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The pilot made reply) 1 am a-feared'—'Push on, push on!'

Said the hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,

But I nor spake nor stirred;

The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

The ship suddenly ^{Under the water it} rumbled on,

sinketh. Still louder and more dread:

It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.

The ancient Mariner Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, is saved in the pi- Which sky and ocean smote,

lot s boat. Like one that hath been seven days drowned

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself I found quot;Within the pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round;

And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit;

The holy hermit raised his eyes. And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the pilot's boy.

Who now doth crazy go,

Laughed loud and long, and all the while

His eyes went to and fro.

'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,

The Devil knows how to row.'

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And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land!

The hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

O shrieve me , shrieve me , holy man! The hermit crossed his brow.

'Say quick, quoth he, 'I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?'

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth theHermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns:

And till my ghastly tale is told. This heart within me burns.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there:

But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are:

And hark the little vesper bell,

Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea:

So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—

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To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends

And youths and maidens gay!

And to teach hy his Farewell, farewell! but this I tell own example love tj^ thou Wedding-Guest!

and reverence to ,, ,, . , ,,

all things that God He prayeth well, who loveth well

made and loveth. Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us. He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned. And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

CHMSTABEL.

preface.

The first part of the following poem was written in the year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable, that ifthe p o em had been finished at either of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this, I hare only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they bshold

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flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggerel version of two monkish Latin hexameters.

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours;

But an if this will not do.

Let it be inine, good friend! for I Am the poorer of the two.

I have only to add, that the metre of the Cristabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition, in the nature of the imagery or passion.

PAKT I.

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,

And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;

Tu—whit! —Tu—whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,

How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;

From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;

Ever and aye, by shine and shower,

Sixteen short howls, not over loud;

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?

The night is chilly, but not dark.

The thin gray cloud is spread on high,

It covers but not hides the sky.

The moon is behind, and at the full;

And yet she looks both small and dull.

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The night is chill, the cloud is gray:

'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,

What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate ?

She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight;

And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke , The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak,

But moss and rarest misletoe:

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree.

And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,

The lovely lady, Christabel!

It moaned as near, as near can be,

But what it is, she cannot tell.—

On the other side it seems to be,

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?

There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek—

There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan.

That dances as often as dance it can,

Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!

Jesu, Maria, shield her well I

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She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak.

What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,

Drest in a silken robe of white,

That shadowy in the moonlight shone:

The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were,

And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair.

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she—

Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet,

And her voice was faint and sweet:—

Have pity on my sore distress,

I scarce can speak for weariness:

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!

Said Christabel, How earnest thou here?

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet:—

My sire is of a noble line,

And my name is Geraldine:

Five warriors seized me yestermorn,

Me, even me, a maid forlorn:

They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white.

The palfrey was as fleet as wind,

And they rode furiously behind.

They spurred amain, their steeds were white: And once we crossed the shade of night.

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,

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I have no thought what men they be;

Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced I wis)

Since one, the tallest of the five,

Took me from the palfrey's back,

A weary woman, scarce alive.

Some muttered words his comrades sjioke: He placed me underneath this oak;

He swore they would return with haste; Whither they went I cannot tell—

I thought I heard, some minutes past, Sounds as of a castle bell.

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine:

O well, bright dame! may you command The service of Sir Leoline;

And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth and friends withal To guide and guard you safe and free Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest.

And thus spake on sweet Christabel:

All our household are at rest.

The hall as silent as the cell;

Sir Leoline is weak in health,

And may not well awakened be,

But we will move as if in stealth,

And I beseech your courtesy.

This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well;

A little door she opened straight,

All in the middle of the gate;

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The gate that was ironed within and without,

Where an army in battle array had marched out.

The lady sank, belike through pain,

And Christabel with might and main

Lifted her up, a weary weight,

Over the threshold of the gate;

Then the lady rose again,

And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,

They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried To the Lady by her side;

Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!

Alas, alas! said Geraldine,

I cannot speak for weariness.

So free from danger, free from fear.

They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel the mastiff old Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.

The mastiff old did not awake.

Yet she an angry moan did make!

And what can ail the mastiff bitch?

Never till now she uttered yell Beneath the eye of Christabel.

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:

For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still,

Pass as lightly as you will!

The brands were flat, the brands were dying. Amid their own white ashes lying;

But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame;

And Christabel saw the lady's eye,

And nothing else saw she thereby,

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.

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0 softly tread, said Christabel,

My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And, jealous of the listening air.

They steal their way from stair to stair. Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron's room. As still as death with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air ^ And not a moonbeam enters here.

But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously,

Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain.

For a lady's chamber meet:

The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; Bat Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright And left it swinging to and fro,

quot;While Geraldine, in wretched plight,

Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine,

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine!

It is a wine of virtuous powers;

My mother made it of wild flowers.

And will your mother pity me.

Who am a maiden most forlorn?

Christabel answered—Woe is me!

She died the hour that I was born.

I have heard the grey-haired friar tell. How on her death-bed she did say.

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That she should hear the castle-bell Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.

0 mother dear! that thou wert here!

1 would, said Geraldine, she were!

But soon with altered voice, said she—

'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!

I have power to bid thee flee.'

Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?

Why stares she with unsettled eye?

Can she the bodiless dead espy?

And why with hollow voice cries she,

' Off, woman, off I 'tis given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side.

And raised to heaven her eyes so blue —

Alas! said she, this ghastly ride —

Dear lady! it hath wildered you !

The lady wiped her moist cold brow.

And faintly said, ' 'tis over now!'

Again the wild-flower wine she drank Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,

And from the floor whereon she sank,

The lofty lady stood upright;

She was most beautiful to see,

Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake —

All they, who live in the upper sky,

Do love you, holy Christabel!

And you love them, and for their sake And for the good which me befell,

Even I in my degree will try.

Fair maiden, to requite you well.

But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, so let it be!

And as the lady bade, did she.

Her gentle limbs did she undress,.

And lay down in her loveliness.

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But through her brain of weal aud woe So many thoughts moved to and fro,

That vain it were her lids to close;

So half-way from the bed she rose And on her elbow did recline To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, And slowly rolled her eyes around;

Then drawing in her breath aloud Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe , and inner vest,

Dropt to her feet, and full in view.

Behold! her bosom and half her side —

A sight to dream of, not to tell!

O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;

Ah! what a stricken look was hers!

Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay.

And eyes the maid and seeks delay;

Then suddenly as one defied Collects herself in scorn and pride,

And lay down by the maiden's side! —

And in her arms the maid she took.

Ah well-a-day!

And with low voice and doleful look

These words did say:

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow, But vainly thou warrest.

For this is alone in Thy power to declare.

That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:

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And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

THE CONCLUSION TO PAKT I.

It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she Was praying at the old oak tree Amid the jagged shadows Of mossy leafless boughs,

Kneeling in the moonlight,

To make her gentle vows;

Her slender palms together prest,

Heaving sometimes on her breast;

Her face resigned to bliss or bale — Her face, oh call it fair not pale,

And both blue eyes more bright than clear. Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)

Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,

Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,

Dreaming that alone, which is—

O sorrow and shame! Can this be she. The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo! the worker of these harms.

That holds the maiden in her arms.

Seems to slumber still and mild, As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. O Geraldine! one hour was thine'—

Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still. But now they are jubilant anew.

From cliff and tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo! Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell! And see! the lady Christabel

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Gathers herself from out her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-Large tears that leave the lashes bright! And oft the while she seema to smile As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep. Like a youthful hermitess.

Beauteous in a wilderness,

Who, praying always, prays in sleep. And, if she move unquietly.

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free. Comes back and tingles in her feet. No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.

What if her guardian spirit 'twere?

What if she knew her mother near? But this she knows, in joys and woes. That saints will aid if men will call: For the blue sky bends over all!

pakt ii.

Bach matin bell, the Baron saith,

Knells us back to a world of death.

These words Sir Leoline first said,

When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say.

Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began , That still at dawn the sacristan, Who duly pulls the heavy bell.

Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke—a warning knell. Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.

Saith Bracy the bard. So let it knell! And let the drowsy sacristan

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Still count as slowly as he can!

There is no lack of such, I ween,

As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent.

With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. Who all give back, one after t'other, The death-note to their living brother; And oft too, by the knell offended.

Just as their one! two! three! is ended. The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borodale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud That merry peal comes ringing loud; And Geraldine shakes off her dread, And rises lightly from the bed;

Puts on her silken vestments white, And tricks her hair in lovely plight. And nothing doubting of her spell Awakens the lady Christabel?

'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?

I trust that you have rested well.'

And Christabel awoke and spied The same who lay down by her side— O rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak tree! Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! For she belike hath drunken deep Of all the blessedness of sleep!

And while she spake, her looks, her air Such gentle thankfulness declare,

That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. ' Sure I have sinned!' said Christabel, 'Now heaven be praised if all be well!' And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Did she the lofty lady greet

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With such perplexity of mind As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Her maiden limbs, and having prayed That He, who on the cross did groan, Might wash away her sins unknown, She forthwith led fair Geraldine To meet her sire. Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tall Are pacing both into the hall,

And pacing on through page and groom Enter the Baron's presence room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast,

With cheerful wonder in his eyes The lady Geraldine espies.

And gave such welcome to the same, As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady's tale. And when she told her father's name. Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,

Murmuring o'er the name again.

Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?

Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine.

With Roland and Sir Leoline.

Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted— ne'er to meet again! But never either found another

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To free the hollow heart from paining—

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs -which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between;—

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder.

Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.

Sir Leoline, a moment's space,

Stood gazing on the damsel's face:

And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age.

His noble heart swelled high with rage;

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side.

He would proclaim it far and wide With trump and solemn heraldry.

That they who thus had wronged the dame, Were base as spotted infamy!

'And if they dare deny the same.

My herald shall appoint a week,

And let the recreant traitors seek My tourney court—that there and then I may dislodge their reptile souls From the bodies and forms of men!'

He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!

For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face, And fondly in his arms he took Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace.

Prolonging it with joyous look.

Which when she viewed, a vision fell Upon the soul of Christabel,

The vision of fear, the touch and pain! She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee Thou gentle maid! such sights to see ?)

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Again she saw that bosom old,

And drew in her breath with a hissing^ sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away, And in its stead that vision blest,

Which comforted her after-rest.

While in the lady's arms she lay.

Had put a rapture in her breast.

And on her lips and o'er her eyes Spread smiles like light!

With new surprise, 'What ails then my beloved child?'

The Baron said—His daughter mild Made answer, 'AH will yet be well!'

I ween, she had no power to tell Aught else^: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,

Had deemed her sure a thing divine.

Such sorrow with such grace she blended.

As if she feared, she had offended Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!

And with such lowly tones she prayed,

She might be sent without delay Home to her father's mansion.

'Nay!

Nay , by my soul!' said Leoline.

'Hoi Bracy, the bard, the-charge be thine! Go thou, with music sweet and loud,

And take two steeds with trappings proud. And take the youth whom thou lov'st best To bear thy harp, and learn thy song. And clothe you both in solemn vest,

And over the mountains hasle along,

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,

Detain you on the valley road.

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And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, And reaches soon that castle good Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.

'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet, Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, More loud than your horses' echoing feet! And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free— Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.

He bids thee come without delay With all thy numerous array;

And take thy lovely daughter home:

And he will meet thee on the way With all his numerous array White with their panting palfreys' foam:

And by mine honour! I will say.

That I repent me of the day When I spake words of fierce disdain To Eoland de Vaux of Tryermaine! —

—For since that evil hour hath flown,

Many a summer's sun hath shone;

Yet ne'er found 1 a friend again Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'

The lady fell, and clasped his knees,

Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, His gracious hail on all bestowing! —

'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,

Are sweeter than my harp can tell;

Yet might I gain a boon of thee.

This day my journey should not be,

So strange a dream hath come to me;

That I had vowed with music loud To clear yon wood from thing unblest,

Warned by a vision in my rest!

For in my sleep I saw that dove.

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That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,

And call'st by thy own daughter's name —

Sir Leoline! 1 saw the same Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,

Among the green herbs in the forest alone.

Which when I saw and when I heard,

I wonder'd what might ail the bird;

For nothing near it could I see,

Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.

'And in my dream methought I went To search out what might there be found;

And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,

That thus lay fluttering on the ground.

I went and peered, and could descry No cause for her distressful cry;

But yet for her dear lady's sake I stooped, methought, the dove to take.

When lo! I saw a bright green snake Coiled around its wings and neck,

Green as the herbs on which it couched,

Close by the dove's its head it crouched;

And with the dove it heaves and stirs,

Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!

I woke; it was the midnight hour.

The clock was echoing in the tower;

But though my slumber was gone by,

This dream it would not pass away—

It seems to live upon my eye!

And thence I vowed this self-same day,

With music strong and saintly song To wander through the forest bare,

Lest aught unholy loiter there.'

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,

Half listening heard him with a smile;

Then turned to Lady Geraldine,

His eye made up of wonder and love;

And said in courtly accents fine,

• Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,

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With arms more strong than harp or song, Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'

He kissed her forehead as he spake, And Geraldine, in maiden -wise,

Casting down her large bright eyes,

With blushing cheek and courtesy fine She turned her from Sir Leoline;

Softly gathering up her train,

That o'er her right arm fell again;

And folded her arms across her chest. And couched her head upon her breast, And looked askance at Christabel —

Jesu Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head.

Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye.

And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread At Christabel she looked askance!— One moment—and the sight was fled! But Christabel in dizzy trance Stumbling on the unsteady ground Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; And Geraldine again turned round,

And like a thing, that sought relief.

Full of wonder and full of grief,

She rolled her large bright eyes divine Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, She nothing sees—no sight but one 1 The maid, devoid of guile and sin,

I know not how, in fearful wise So deeply had she drunken in That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,

That all her features were resigned To this sole image in her mind;

And passively did imitate That look of dull and treacherous hate!

And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,

'Still picturing that look askance

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With forced unconscious sympathy Pull before her father's view—

As far as such a look could be,

In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid Paused awhile, and inly prayed:

Then falling at the Baron's feet,

'By my mother's soul do I entreat That thou this woman send away!'

She said; and more she could not say: Por what she knew she could not tell, O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir Leoline? Thy only child Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride.

So fair, so innocent, so mild;

The same, for whom thy lady died!

O by the pangs of her dear mother Think thou no evil of thy child!

Por her, and thee, and for no other. She prayed the moment ere she died:

Prayed that the babe for whom she died. Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,

Sir Leoline!

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child. Her child and thine?

Within the Baron's heart and brain If thoughts, like these, had any share.

They only swelled his rage and pain.

And did but work confusion there.

His heart was cleft with pain and rage, His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. Dishonoured thus in his old age;

Dishonoured by his only child.

And all his hopitality To the wrong'd daughter of his friend By more than woman's jealousy

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Brought thus to a disgraceful end— He rolled his eye ■with stern regard Upon the gentle minstrel bard, And said in tones abrupt, austere— ' Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here ? I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed; And turning from his own sweet maid, The aged knight. Sir Leoline,

Led forth the lady Geraldine!

the conclusion to pakt ii.

A little child, a limber elf.

Singing, dancing to itself,

A fairy thing with red round cheeks,

That always finds, and never seeks,

Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness.

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other;

To matter and mock a broken charm,

To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty At each wild word to feel within A sweet recoil of love and pity.

And what, if in a world of sin (0 sorrow and shame should this be true!)

Such giddiness of heart and brain Comes seldom save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do.

Part I., 1797.—Pass II., 1800.

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102

FBANCE. AIT ODE.

Te Clouds! that far above me float and pause,

Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll.

Yield homage only to eternal laws!

Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,

Save when your own imperious branches swinging,

Have made a solemn music of the wind!

Where, like a man beloved of God,

Through glooms, which never woodman trod,

How oft, pursuing fancies holy,

My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound.

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,

By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Wayes! and O ye Forests high!

And 0 ye clouds that far above me soared!

Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!

Yea, every thing that is and will be free!

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,

With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,

And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea,. Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free. Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!

With what a joy my lofty gratulation

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:

And whem to whelm the disenchanted nation.

Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The Monarchs marched in evil day.

And Britain joined the dire array;

Though dear her shores and circling ocean,

Though many friendships, many youthful loves. Had swol'n the patriot emotion

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loa

And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,

And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!

For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;

But blessed the pseans of delivered France,

And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

'And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove!

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,

The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!'

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;

When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;

When, insupportably advancing.

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp;

While timed looks of fury glancing,

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,

Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;

' And soon,' I said, ' shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan!

And, conquering by her happiness alone.

Shall France compel the nations to be free.

Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.'

IV.

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams !

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament.

From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent—

I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,

And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows

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With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt.

Where Peace her jealous home had built;

A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;

And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind.

And patriot only in pernicious toils.

Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind?

To mix with Kings in the/low lust of sway,

Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,

Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!

O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour;

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.

Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,

(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,

And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,

Thou speedeat on thy subtle pinions.

The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee ! —on that sea-cliff's verge,

Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. Had made one murmur with the distant surge!

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,

And shot my being through earth, sea and air.

Possessing all things with intensest love,

O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

February, 1797.

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LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are bnt ministers of Love.

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I lay. Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man , The statute of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay.

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air ,

I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush.

With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

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I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,—

There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept, and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain; —

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away.

When on the yellow forest-eaves A dying man he lay;—

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His dying words—but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued.

Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stept—

Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up. And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see. The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

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THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear And dedicated name, I hear A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life. Tea, in that very name of Wife!

A pnlse of love, that ne'er can sleep! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert.

That gladness half requests to weep! Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting From jealous fears, or coy denying; But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying.

Wheel out their giddy moment, then Resign the soul to love again;—

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave their sweeter understain Its own sweet self—a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

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HYMN

befoke sün-rise, in the vale of chamouki.

Besides the Eivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers with its 'flowers of loveliest blue.'

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!

Bisest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,

As with a wedge! But when I look again,

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!

0 dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer

1 worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody.

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it.

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused.

Into the mighty vision passing—there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake , my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!

O struggling with the darkness all the night,

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And visited all night by troops of stars,

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the morning-star at dawn ,

Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, 0 wake, and utter praise!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, Prom dark and icy caverns called you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,

For ever shattered and the same for ever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life.

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came,)

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain —

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with raimbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal froat! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!

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Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the element!

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount I with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard.

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast —

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud.

To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise,

Bise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,

Oreat hiërarch! tell thou the silent sky,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

A DAY DREAM.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut: —

I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there.

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,

And that and summer well agree:

And lo! where Mary leans her head.

Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow,

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'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the orescent moon!

And now it is a dark warm night.

The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever — ever be thou blest I For dearly, Asra, love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast.

This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me!

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither,

But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall.

By the still dancing fire-flames made;

And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:

I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play —

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou!

Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,

Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

1814-16.

YOUTH AND AGE.

Vekse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — Both were mine! Life went a maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young! When I was young? — Ah, woful when! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

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This breathing house not built with hands , This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:—

Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar.

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I liv'd in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree;

0! the joys, that came down shower-like. Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old. Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,

Which tells me. Youth's no longer here!

0 Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit —

It cannot be, that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd: — And thou wert aye a masker bold!

What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe, that Thou art gone?

1 see these locks in silvery slips.

This drooping gait, this altered size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!

Life is but thought: so think [ will That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve.

When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave,

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Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, Aud tells the jest without the smile.

ROBERT SO ü THEY (1774—1843).

BEMEMBBAHCE.

Mak hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends, On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends;

quot;With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before.

And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms,—

What then shall soothe his earliest woes.

When novelty hath lost its charms? Condemn'd to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return.

From hard controul and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools,

In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home.

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life.

Torment the restless mind;

Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find ?

Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,

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Life's summer prime of joy?

Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd,

And feelings blasted or betray'd,

Its fabled bliss destroy;

And Youth remembers with a sigh The careless days of Infancy.

Matnrer Manhood now arrives,'

And other thoughts come on ,

But with the baseless hopes of Youth

Its generous warmth is gone;

Cold calculating cares succeed,

The timid thought, the wary deed,

The dull realities of truth;

Back on the past he turns his eye.

Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth.

So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage,

With feeble step and slow;

New ills that latter stage await,

And old Experience learns too late

That all is vanity below.

Life's vain delusions are gone by

Its idle hopes are o'er,

Yet age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS,

AKD HOW HE GAIXED THEM.

You are old. Father William, the young man cried.

The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale. Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast,

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And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth. Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did.

That I never might grieve for the past.

Tou are old. Father William, the young man cried. And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death. Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man. Father William replied. Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.

MABY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;

Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:

Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

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Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;

The Traveller remembers who joumey'd this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcomed them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright. And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

' 'Tis pleasant, cried one, ' seated by the fire-side,

To hear the wind whistle without.'

' What a night for the Abbey!' his comrade replied, 'Methinks a man's courage'would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about.

'I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

The hoarse ivy shake over my head;

And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear.

Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear.

For this wind might awaken the dead!'

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'I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried,

'That Mary would venture there now.'

'Then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied,

' I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

And faint if she saw a white cow.'

10.

'Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?' His companion exclaim'd with a smile;

' I shall win, — for I know she will venture there now,

And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle.'

11.

With fearless good humour did Mary comply,

And her way to the Abbey she bent;

The night was dark, and the wind was high.

And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky. She shiver'd with cold as she went.

12.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid,

Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

13.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly pass'd,

And arrived at the innermost ruin at last Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

14.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near. And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,

She paused, and she listen'd intently, in fear,

And her heart panted painfully now.

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15.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,

She listen'd — nought else could she hear;

The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

16.

Behind a wide column half breathless with fear.

She crept to conceal herself there:

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, And between them a corpse did they bear.

17.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold;

Again the rough wind hurried by, —

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd, —

She felt, and expected to die.

18.

⁴ Curse the hat!' he exclaims: ' Nay, come on till we hide

The dead body,' his comrade replies.

She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,

She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast through the Abbey she flies.

19.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,

She gazed in her terror around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,

Unable to utter a sound.

20.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart.

For a moment the hat met her view; —

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For — what a cold horror then thrilled through her heart When the name of her Eichard she knew!

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21.

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by,

His gibbet is now to be seen;

His irons you still from the road may espy; The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

LORD WILLIAM.

No eye beheld when William plunged Young Edmund in the stream,

No human ear but William's heard Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive all the vassals own'd The murderer for their Lord,

And he as rightful heir possess'd The house of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford Stood in a fair domain.

And Severn's ample waters near Roll'd through the fertile plain.

And often the way-faring man Would love to linger there.

Forgetful of his onward road,

To gaze on scenes so fair.

But never could Lord William dare To gaze on Severn's stream;

In every wind that swept its waves He heard young Edmund's scream.

In vain at midnight's silent hour Sleep closed the murderer's eyes.

In every dream the murderer saw Young Edmund's form arise.

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In vain by restless conscience driven Lord William left his home,

Far from the scenes that saw bis guilt, In pilgrimage to roam;

To other climes the pilgrim fled. But could not fly despair;

He sought his home again, but peace Was still a stranger there.

Slow were the passing hours, yet swift The months appear'd to roll;

And now the day return'd that shook With terror Willam's soul;

A day that William never felt Return without dismay,

For well had conscience kalender'd Young Edmund's dying day.

A fearful day was that; the rains Fell fast with tempest roar.

And the swoln tide of Severn spread Far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast, In vain he quaff'd the bowl ,

And strove with noisy mirth to drown The anguish of his soul.

The tempest, as its sudden swell In gusty bowlings came,

With cold and death-like feeling seem'd To thrill his shuddering frame.

Reluctant now, as night came on, His lonely couch he prest;

And, wearied out, he sunk to sleep, — To sleep — but not to rest.

Beside that couch his brother's form, Lord Edmund seem'd to stand,

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Such and so pale as when in death He grasp'd his brother's hand;

Such and so pale his face as when With faint and faltering tongue,

To William's care, a dying charge,

He left his orphan son.

'I bade thee with a father's love My orphan Edmund guard; —

Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge, Take now thy due reward.'

He started up, each limb convulsed With agonizing fear;

He only heard the storm of night, —

'Twas music to his ear.

When lo! the voice of loud alarm His inmost soul appals;

'What ho! Lord William, rise in haste! The water saps thy walls!'

He rose in haste, beneath the walls He saw the flood appear;

It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, No human aid was near.

He heard a shout of joy, for now A boat approach'd the wall,

And eager to the welcome aid They crowd for safety all.

' My boat is small ^ the boatman cried; ' 'Twill bear but one away;

Come in, Lord William, and do ye In God's protection stay.'

Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice Even in that hour of woe,

That, save their Lord, there was not one Who wish'd with him to go.

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But William leapt into the boat,

His terror was no sore;

'Thou shalt have half my gold,' he cried,

Haste — haste to yonder shore.

The boatman paused, 'Methought I heard A child's distressful cry!'

''Twas but the howling wind of night,'

Lord William made reply.

' Haste — haste — ply swift and strong the oar;

Haste — haste across the stream!'

Again Lord William heard a cry Like Edmund's drowning scream.

'I heard a child's distressful voice,'

The boatman cried again.

'Nay, hasten on — the night is dark.—

And we should search in vain.'

' 0 God! Lord William , dost thou know How dreadful 'tis to die?

And canst thou without pity hear A child's expiring cry?

'How horrible it is to sink Beneath the closing stream,

To stretch the powerless arms in vain,

In vain for help to scream!'

The shriek again was heard: it came More deep, more piercing loud;

That instant o'er the flood the moon Shone through a broken cloud;

And near them they beheld a child;

Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around Was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat Approach'd his resting-place;

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The moon-beam shone upon the child, And show'd how pale his face.

' Now reach thine hand!' the boatman cried, ' Lord William, reach and save!'

The child stretch'd forth his little hands To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shriek'd; the hands he felt Were cold and damp and dead!

He held young Edmund in his arms A heavier weight than lead.

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk Beneath the avenging stream;

He rose, he shriek'd, no human ear Heard William's drowning scream.

THE WELL OP ST. KEYME.

A Well there is in the west country , And a clearer one never was seen ;

There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling. And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear. For thirsty and hot was he.

And he sat down upon the bank Under the willlow-tree.

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There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail;

On the quot;Well-side he rested it,

And he bade the Stranger hail.

'Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?' quoth he, ' For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

' Or has thy good woman, if one thou haat,

Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.'

'I have left a good woman who never was here,' The Stranger he made reply,

' But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?'

' St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, ' many a time Drank of this crystal Well,

And before the Angel summon'd her.

She laid on the water a spell.

'If the Husband of this gifted Well Shall drink before his Wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he.

For he shall be Master for life.

'But if the Wife should drink of it first, —

God help the Husband then!'

The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

'You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?'

He to the Cornish-man said:

But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

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'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my Wife in the porch;

But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to Church.'

ST. EOMTJALD.

One day, it matters not to know How many hundred years ago, A Frenchman stopt at an inn door: The Landlord came to welcome him, and chat Of this and that.

For he had seen the Traveller there before.

'Doth holy Tvomuald dwell Still in his cell?'

The Traveller ask'd, 'or is the old man dead?' 'No; he has left his loving flock, and we So great a Christian never more shall see,' The Landlord answer'd, and lie shook his head. 'Ah, Sir! we knew his worth!

If ever there did live a saint on earth!.. Why, Sir, he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night;

Good man, he knew it was not right For Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt! And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again.

'There has been perilous work With him and the Devil there in yonder cell; For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. There they would sometimes fight All through a winter's night,

From sun-set until morn,

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn; The Devil spitting fire with might and main Enough to make St. Michael half afraid:

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He splashing holy water till he made His red hide hiss again,

And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell.

This was so common that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame,

And then he smelt, — O Lord! how he did smell!

'Then, Sir! to see how he would mortify The flesh! If any one had dainty fare,

Good man, he would come there,

And look at all the delicate things, and cry,

'0 Belly, Belly,

You would be gormandizing now I know;

But it shall not be so! —

Home to your bread and water — home, I tell ye!''

'But,' quoth the Traveller, 'wherefore did he leave A flock that knew his saintly worth so well?' 'Why,' said the Landlord, 'Sir, it so befell

He heard unluckily of our intent To do him a great honour; and you know,

He was not covetous of fame below.

And so by stealth one night away he went.'

'What might this honour be?' the Traveller cried;

'Why, Sir,' the Host replied,

'We thought perhaps that ho might one day leave us; And then should strangers have The good man's grave,

A loss like that would naturally grieve us,

For he'll be made a Saint of to be sure.

Therefore we thought it prudent to secure

His relics while we might;

And so we meant to strangle bim one night.'

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THE BATTLE OP BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round.

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kasper took it from the boy.

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head.

And with a natural sigh,

' Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he , 'Who fell in the great victory.

'I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,' said he,

'Were slain in that great victory.'

'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'

Young Peterkin, he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

'Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.'

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'It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 'Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out;

But every body said,' quoth he,

' That 'twas a famous victory.

'My father lived at Blenheim then. Ton little stream hard by ;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground. And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide.

And many a childing mother then, And new-bom baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

'They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

10.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene.'

'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'

Said little Wilhelmine.

'Nay — nay — my little girl,' quoth he,

'It was a famous victory.

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11.

' And every liody praised the Dake

Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it at last?'

Quoth little Peterkin.

'Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 'But 'twas a famous victory.'

THE CATARACT OF LODOBE.

' How does the Water Come down at Lodore?'

My little boy ask'd me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he task'd me To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word.

There first came one daughter And then came another. To second and third The request of their brother. And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore,

With its rush and its roar.

As many a time They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme.

For of rhymes I had store: And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing;

Because I was Laureate To them and the King.

From its sources which well In the Tarn on the fell;

From its fountains In the mountains.

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Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For awhile, till it sleeps In its own little Lake. And thence at depaiting. Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds And away it proceeds.

Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter. Among crags in its flurry. Helter-skelter,

Hurry-scurry.

Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing It's tumult and wrath in.

Till in this rapid race On which it is bent.

It reaches the place Of its steep descent.

Tfie Cataract strong Then plunges along.

Striking and raging As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among:

Rising and leaping.

Sinking and creeping,

Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing.

Flying and flinging.

Writhing and ringing.

Eddying and whisking.

Spouting and frisking.

Turning and twisting,

Around and around quot;With endless rebound!

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Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in;

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,

Receding and speeding. And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading. And whizzing and hizzing. And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling. And shaking and quaking. And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving. And tossing and crossing, And flowing and growing, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming. And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking. And guggling and struggling. And heaving and cleaving. And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering. And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening. And quivering and shivering. And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding. And falling and brawling and sprawling. And driving and riving and striving. And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

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And souding and bounding find rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling , And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing _lRecoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending.

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.

THE FUNERAL.

(From tue curse of kehama.)

Midkight, and yet no eye Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep! Behold her streets a-blaze With light that seems to kindle the red sky, Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways! Master and slave, old age and infancy, All, all abroad to gaze;

House-top and balcony Clustered with women, who throw back their veils With unimpeded and insatiate sight To view the funeral pomp which passes by, As if the mournful rite Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight.

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Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night,

Tour feeble beams ye shed,

Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out-stare Even the broad eye of day;

And thou from thy celestial way Pourest, O Moon, an ineffectual ray!

For lo! ten thousand torches flame and flare Upon the midnight air.

Blotting the lights of heaven With one portentous glare.

Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold. Ascending, floats along the flery sky. And hangeth visible on high,

A dark and waving canopy.

Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath!

'Tis the dirge of death!

At once ten thousand drums begin,

With one long thunder-peal the ear assailing; Ten thousand voices then join in,

And with one deep and general din Pour their wild wailing.

The song of praise is drown'd Amid the deafening sound;

Tou hear no more the trumpet's tone. You hear no more the mourner's moan,

Though the trumpet's breath, and the dirge of death. Swell with commingled force the funerall yell. But rising over all in one acclaim Is heard the echoed and re-echoed name.

From all that countless rout;

Arvalan! Arvalan!

Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout Call Arvalan! The overpowering sound,

From house to house repeated rings about,

From tower to tower rolls round.

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The death-procession moves along;

Their bald heads shining to the torches' ray, The Bramins lead the way,

Chaunting the funeral song.

And now at once they shout,

Arvalan! Arvalan!

With quick rebound of sound,

All in accordance cry,

Arvalan! Arvalan!

The universal multitude reply.

In vain ye thunder on his ear the name;

Would ye awake the dead?

Borne upright in his palankeen.

There Arvalan is seen!

A glow is on his face, — a lively red;

It is the crimson canopy Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed, He moves, — he nods his head, —

But the motion comes from the bearers' tread,

As the body, borne aloft in state,

Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight.

Close following his dead son, Kehama came,

Nor joining in the ritual song.

Nor calling the dear name.

With head deprest and funeral vest.

And arms enfolded on his breast,

Silent and lost in thought he moves along.

King of the World, his slaves, unenvying now.

Behold their wretched Lord; rejoiced they see

The mighty Rajah's misery;

That Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow. And taught the Master of Mankind to know Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe.

O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan,

Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen!

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Their widow-robes of white,

With gold and jewels bright,

Each like an Eastern queen. Woe! woe! around their palankeen,

As on a bridal day.

With symphony, and dance, and song, Their kindred and their friends come on. The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song! And next the victim slaves in long array, Richly bedight to grace the fatal day.

Move onward to their death; The clarions' stirring breath Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold. And swells the woven gold.

That on the agitated air Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare.

A man and maid of aspect wan and wild. Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came; O wretched father! O unhappy child!

Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring — Is this the dariug man Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan! Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel Kehama's dreadful wrath?

Them were all hearts of all the throng deploring, For not in that innumerable throng Was one who loved the dead; for who could know What aggravated wrong Provoked the desperate blow!

Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight.

In order'd files the torches flow along. One ever-lengthening line of gliding light:

Far — far behind,

Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour. Of horn, and trump, and tambour;

Incessant as the roar

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Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, And louder than the dread commotion

Of breakers on a rocky shore,

When the winds rage over the waves, And Ocean to the Tempest raves,

And now toward the bank they go,

Where winding on their way below,

Deep and strong the waters flow.

Here doth the funeral pile appear With myrrh and ambergris bestrew'd, And built of precious sandal wood.

They cease their music and their outcry here, Gentle they rest the bier;

They wet the face of Arvalan,

No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite;

They feel his breast, —no motion there;

They feel his lips , — no breath;

For not with feeble, nor with erring hand. The brave avenger dealt the blow of death. Then with a doubling peal and deeper blast, The tambours and the trumpets sound on high. And with a last and loudest cry They call on Arvalan.

10.

Woe! woe! for Azla takes her seat Upon the funeral pile!

Calmty she took her seat,

Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey'd;

As on her lap the while The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid.

11.

Woe! woe! Nealliny,

The young Nealliny!

They strip her ornaments away,

Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zone; Around her neck they leave The marriage knot alone, —

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That marriage band, which when Yon waning moon was young,

Around her virgin neck With bridal joy was hung.

Then with white flowers, the coronal of death. Her jetty locks they crown.

12.

O sight of misery !

You cannot hear her cries, —their sound In that wild dissonance is drown'd; —

But in her face you see The supplication and the agony , —

See in her swelling throat the desperate strength That with vain effort struggles yet for life; Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife. Now wildly at full length Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread, — They force her on, they bind her to the dead.

13.

Then all around retire;

Circling the pile, the ministering Bramins stand , Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire.

Alone the Father of the dead advanced And lit the funeral pyre.

14.

At once on every side The circling torches drop ,

At once on every side The fragrant oil is pour'd,

At once on every side The rapid flames rush up.

Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre; Their garments' flying folds Float inward to the fire:

In drunken whirl they wheel around; One drops, — another plunges in;

And still with overwhelming din

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The tambours and the trumpets sound; And clap of hand, and shouts, and cries.

From all the multitude arise;

While round and round, in giddy wheel, Intoxicate they roll and reel,

Till one by one whirl'd in they fall. And the devouring flames have swallow'd all.

15.

Then all was still; the drums and clarions ceased; The multitude were hush'd in silent awe:

Only the roaring of the flames was heard.

LOVE.

(From THE CUESE OF KEHAMA.)

They sin who tell us Love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell; Earthly these passions of the Earth, They perish where they have their birth; But Love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth; Too oft on Earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest.

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest: It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of Love is there. Oh! when a Mother meets on high The Babe she lost in infancy,

Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night. For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight?

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i4(r

THE SOURCE OP THE GANGES.

{From the cuiisB oï kehama.)

None hath seen its secret fountain;

But on the top of Meru Mountain Which rises o'er the hills of earth In light and clouds, it hath its mortal birth. Earth seems that pinnacle to rear Sublime above this worldly sphere, Its cradle, and its altar, and its throne; And there the new-born River lies Outspread beneath its native skies,

As if it there would love to dwell

Alone aud unapproachable.

Soon flowing forward, and resign'd To the will of the Creating Mind, It springs at once, with sudden leap,

Down from the immeasurable steep.

From rock to rock, with shivering force rebounding. The mighty cataract rushes ; Heaven around, Like thunder, with the incesssant roar resounding.

And Meru's summit shaking with the sound. Wide spreads the snowy foam, the sparkling spray Dances aloft; and ever there at morning The earliest sunbeams haste to wing their way, With rainbow wreaths the holy streams adorning; And duly the adoring Moon at night Sheds her white glory there,

And in the watery air Suspends her halo-crowns of silver light.

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141

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771—1832.)

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

canto fikst.

The Chase.

Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast huug

On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till epvious ivy did around thee cling,

Muffling with verdant ringlet every string

O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep ? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,

Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,

Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,

When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,

Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud.

At each according pause, was heard aloud

Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!

Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd;

For still the burden of thy minstrelsy Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye.

0 wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand That ventures o'er thy ma,gic maze to stray;

0 wake once more! though scarce my skill command

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier laj»:

Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,

Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway.

The wizard note has not been touch'd in vain.

Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!

The stag at eve had drunk his fill. Where danced the moon on Monan'a rill, And deep his midnight lair had made

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In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;

But, when the sun his beacon red

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,

The deep mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay

Resounded up the rocky way.

And faint, from farther distance borne,

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

ir.

As Chief, who hears his warder call, 'To arms! the foemen storm the wall,' The antler'd monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in hatte. But, ere his fleet career he took. The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high,

Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale,

A moment snufiF'd the tainted gale, A moment listen'd to the cry.

That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,

With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, And, stretching forward free and far,

Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

nr.

Tell'd on the view the opening .pack;

Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back: To many a mingled sound at once The awaken'd niountain gave response. A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, Clatter'd a hundred steeds along,

Their peal the merry horns rung out, A hundred voices join'd the shout.

With hark and whoop and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew.

Far from the tumult fled the roe.

Close in her covert cower'd the doe. The falcon, from her cairn on high.

Cast on the rout a wondering eye,

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Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen.

Faint and more faint, its falling din Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn , And silence settled, wide and still. On the lone wood and mighty hill.

IV.

Less loud the sounds of silvan war Disturb'd the heights of Uatn-Var, And roused the cavern, where 'tis told; A gaint made his den of old;

For ere that steep ascent was won.

High in his pathway hung the sun, And many a gallant, stay'd perforce, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer.

Scarce half the lessening pack was near; So shrewdly on the mountain side Had the hold burst their mettle tried.

The noble stag was pausing now.

Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith.

With anxious eye he wander'd o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor. And ponder'd refuge from his toil.

By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.

But nearer was the copsewood grey.

That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.

Fresh vigour with the hope return'd, With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, Held westward with unwearied race. And left behind the panting chase.

VI.

Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er As swept the hunt through Cambus-more

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What reins were tighton'd in despair,

When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagg'd upon Uochastle's heath, Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,— For twice that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'nr, Few were the stragglers, following far.

That reach'd the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.

VIL

Alone, but with unbated zeal,

That horseman plied the scourge and steel;

For jaded now, and spent with toil,

Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil.

While every gasp with sobs he drew.

The labouring stag strain'd full in view.

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,

Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed.

Fast on his flying traces came,

And all but won that desperate game;

For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch.

Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds stanch;

Nor nearer might the dogs attain,

Nor farther might the quarry strain.

Thus up the margin of the lake,

Between the precipice and brake.

O'er stock and rock their race they take.

VIII.

The Hunter mark'd that mountain high. The lone lake's western boundary. And deem'd the stag must turn to bay. Where that huge rampart barr'd the way; Already glorying in the prize,

Measured his antlers with his eyes;

For the death-wound and death-halloo, Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;— But, thundering as he came prepared,

With ready arm and weapon bared,

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The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,

And turn'd him from the opposing rock;

Then, dashing down a darksome glen,

Soon lóst to hound and hunter's ken,

In the deep Trosach's wildest nook

His solitary refuge took.

There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed

Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head,

He heard the blaffled dogs in vain

Rave through the hollow pass amain,

Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.

IX.

Close on the hounds the hunter came.

To cheer them on the vanish'd game;

But, stumbling in the rugged dell.

The gallant horse exhausted fell.

The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein,

For the good steed, his labours o'er,

Stretch'd his stiif limbs, to rise no more;

Then, touch'd with pity and remorse,

He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse.

'I little thought, when first thy rein I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,

That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!

Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,

That costs thy life, my gallant grey!'

Then through the dell his horn resounds,

From vain pursuit to call the hounds.

Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace,

The sulky leaders of the chase;

Close to their master's side they press'd,

With drooping tail and humbled crest;

But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.

The owlets started from their dream,

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The eagles answer'd with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echo seetn'd an answering blast; And on the hunter hied his way,

To join some comrades of the day; Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it show'd.

XT.

The western waves of ebbing day Roll'd o'er the glen their level way;

Each purple peak, each flinty spire. Was bathed in floods of living fire.

But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below,

Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid,

Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;

Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass,

Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. Their rock}' summits, split and rent, Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, Or seem'd fantastically set With copula or minaret,

Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lack'd they many a banner fair; For, from their shiver'd brows display'd, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

XII.

Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild,

Each plant or flower, the mountain's child

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Here eglantine embalm'd the air,

Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower,

Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-ahade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride,

Group'd their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain.

With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath;

Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock;

And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung. Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high. His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced. Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream.

XIII.

Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep,

Affording scarce such breadth of brim. As served the wild duck's brood to swim; Lost for a space, through thickets veering. But broader when again appearing,

Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; And farther as the hunter stray'd.

Still broader sweeps its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float,

Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still Divide them from their parent hill,

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Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea.

XIV.

And now, to issue from the glen,

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,

Unless he climb, with footing nice,

A far projecting precipice.

The broom's tough roots his ladder made,

The hazel saplings lent their aid;

And thus an airy point he won.

Where, gleaming with the setting sun,

One burnish'd sheet of living gold.

Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd;

In all her length far winding lay.

With promontory, creek, and bay.

And islands that, empurpled bright,

Floated amid the livelier light.

And mountains, that like giants stand,

To sentinel enchanted land.

High on the south, huge Benvenue

Down on the lake in masses threw

Crags, knolls and mounds, confusedly hurl'd,

The fragments of an earlier world;

A wildering forest feather'd o'er

His ruin'd sides and summit hoar.

While on the north, through middle air,

Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

XV.

From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed. And, 'What a scene were here,' he crie, 'For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower;

In that soft vale, a lady's bower;

On yonder meadow, far away,

The turrets of a cloister grey;

How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute

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Chime, when the groves were still and mute! And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave,

How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum,

While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone,

A sainted hermit from his cell,

To drop a bead with every knell— And bugle, lute, and bell, and all,

Should each bewilder'd stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall.

XVI.

'Blithe were it then to wander here! But now,—beshrew yon nimble deer,—

Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare;

Some mossy bank my couch must be,

Some rustling oak my canopy.

Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place; — A summer night, in greenwood spent,

Were but to-morrow's merriment; —

But hosts may in these wilds abound,

Such as are better miss'd than found; To meet with Highland plunderers here, Were worse than loss of steed or deer.— I am alone;—my bugle-strain May call some straggler of the train;

Or, fall the worst that may betide.

Ere now this falchion has been tried.'

XVII.

But scarce again his horn he wound.

When lo! forth starting at the sound,

Erom underneath an aged oak.

That slanted from the islet rock,

A damsel guider of its way,

A little skiff shot to the bay.

That round the promontory steep

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Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow-twig to lave,

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow. The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touch'd this silver strand,

Just as the Hunter left his stand.

And stood conceal'd amid the brake. To view this Lady of the Lake.

The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain. With head up-raised, and look intent. And eye and ear attentive bent,

And locks flung back, and lips apart.

Like monument of Grecian art.

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

XVIII.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,

Of finer form, or lovelier face!

What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown ,— The sportive toil, which, short and light. Had dyed her glowing hue so bright.

Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow:

What though no rule of courtly grace The measured mood had train'd her pace, -A foot mofe light, a step more true.

Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread:

What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue,— Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear. The listener held his breath to hear!

XIX.

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid :

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Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid.

Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing; And seldom o'er a breast so fair,

Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy. You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,

Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confess'd The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye. Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,

Or filial love was glowing there,

Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,

Or tale of injury call'd forth The indignant spirit of the North.

One only passion unreveal'd,

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd. Yet not less purely felt the flame;— 0! need I tell that passion's name!

XX.

Impatient of the silent horn.

Now on the gale her voice was borne:— . 'Father!' she cried, the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound.

Awhile she paused, no answer came,— 'Malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name Less resolutely utter'd fell.

The echoes could not catch the swell. 'A stranger I,' the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade.

The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar,

Push'd her light shallop from the shore,

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And when a space was gain'd between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen; (So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing.)

Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed, She paused , and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye,

That youthful maidens wont to fly.

XXI.

On his bold visage, middle age

Had slightly press'd its signet sage,

Yet had not quench'd the open truth

And fiery vehemence of youth;

Forward and frolic glee was there,

The will to do, the soul to dare.

The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire.

Of hasty love, or headlong ire.

His limbs were cast in manly mould,

For hardy sports or contest bold;

And though in peaceful garb array'd.

And weaponless, except his blade.

His stately mien as well implied

A high-born heart, a mnrtial pride,

As if a Baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armour trod the shore.

Slighting the petty need he show'd,

He told of his benighted road;

His ready speech flow'd fair and free.

In phrase of gentlest courtesy;

Tet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland,

Less used to sue than to command.

XXII.

A while the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied.

That Highland halls were open still To wilder'd wanderers of the hill. 'Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home;

Before the heath had lost the dew,

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This morn, a couch was pull'd for you; On yonder mountain's purple head Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer.'— ' Now, by the rood, my lovely maid,

Your courtesy has err'd,' he said; 'No right have I to claim, misplaced, The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer, here by fortune tost, My way, my friends, my courser lost, I ne'er before, believe me, fair,

Have ever drawn your mountain air.

Till on this lake's romantic strand,

I found a fay in fairy land!'—

XXIII.

' I well believe,' the maid replied,

As her light skiff approach'd the side,— 'I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; But yet, as far as yesternight, Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,— A grey-hair'd sire, whose eye intent Was on the vision'd future bent.

He saw your steed, a dappled grey. Lie dead beneath the birchen way.

Painted exact your form and mien,

Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,

That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt.

That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, That cap with heron plumage trim. And yon two hounds so dark and grim. He bade that all should ready be, To grace a guest of fair degree;

But light I held his prophecy.

And deem'd it was my father's horn. Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne.'

XXIV.

The stranger smiled:—'Since to your home

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A destined errant-knight I come,

Announced by prophet sooth and old,

Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,

I'll lightly front each high emprise.

For one kind glance of those bright eyes.

Permit me, first, the task to guide

Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.'

The maid, with smile suppress'd and sly.

The toil unwonted saw him try;

For seldom sure, if e'er before.

His noble hand had grasp'd an oar:

Yet with main strength his strokes he drew,

And o'er the lake the shallop flew;

With heads erect, and whimpering cry.

The hounds behind their passage ply.

Nor frequent does the bright oar break

The dark'ning mirror of the lake.

Until the rocky isle they reach,

And moor their shallop on the beach.

XXV.

The stranger view'd the shore around,

'Twas all so close with copse wood bound. Nor track nor pathway might declare That humanfoot frequented there.

Until the mountain-maiden show'd A clambering unsuspected road.

That winded through the tangled screen. And open'd on a narrow green,

Where weeping birch and willow round With their long fibres swept the ground;

Here, for retreat in dangerous hour.

Some chief had framed a rustic bower.

XXVI.

It was a lodge of ample size.

But strange of structure and device;

Of such materials, as around

The workman's hand had readiest found.

Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks bared,

And by the hatchet rudely squared,

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To give the walls their destined height, The sturdy oak and ash unite;

While moss and clay and leaves combined To fence each crevice from the wind. The lighter pine-trees, over-head.

Their slender length for rafters spread, And wither'd heath and rushes dry , Supplied a russet canopy.

Due westward, fronting to the green, A rural portico was seen.

Aloft on native pillars borne.

Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn,

Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine The ivy and Idaean vine,

The clematis, the favour'd flower Which boasts the name of virgin-bower, And every hardy plant could bear Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. An instant in this porch she staid.

And gaily to the stranger said,

'On heaven and on thy lady call.

And enter the enchanted hall!'

xxvn.

' My hope, my heaven , my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee.' He cross'd the threshold—and a clang Of angry steel that instant rang.

To his bold brow his spirit rush'd.

But soon for vain alarm he blush'd.

When on the floor he saw display'd.

Cause of the din, a naked blade Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless flung Upon a stag's huge antlers swung;

For all around, the walls to grace.

Hung trophies of the fight or chase: A target there, a bugle here,

A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, And broadswords, bows, and arrows store. With the tusk'd trophies of the boar.

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Here grins the wolf as when he died, And there the wild-cat's brindled hide The frontlet of the elk adorns,

Or mantles o'er the bison's horns;

Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd.

That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, And deer-skins, dappled, dun , and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite.

In rude and uncouth tapestry all,

To garnish forth the sylvan hall.

XXVIII.

The wondering stranger round him gazed, And next the fallen weapon raised: — Few were the arms whose sinewy strength Sufficed to stretch it forth at length,

And as the brand he poised and sway'd, ⁴1 never knew but one,' he said,

' Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield A blade like this in battle-field.'

She sigh'd, then smiled and took the word: 'You see the guardian champion's sword: As light it trembles in his hand,

As in my grasp a hazel wand;

My sire's tall form might grace the part Of Perragus or Ascabart;

But in the absent giant's hold Are women now, and menials old.'

XXIX.

The mistress of the mansion came,

Mature of age, a graceful dame;

Whose easy step and stately port

Had well become a princely court,

To whom, though more than kindred knew,

Toung Ellen gave a mother's due.

Meet welcome to her guest she made,

And every courteous rite was paid.

That hospitality could claim,

Though all unask'd his birth and name.

Such then the reverence to a guest,

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That fellest foe might join the feast, And from his deadliest foeman's door Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. At length his rank the stranger names, 'The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James; Lord of a barren heritage,

Which his brave sires, from age to age, By their good swords had held with toil; His sire had fallen in such turmoil.

And he, God wot, was forced to stand Oft for his right with blade in hand.

This morning, with Lord Moray's train, He chased a stalwart stag in vain, Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer, Lost his good steed, and wander'd here.'

XXX.

Fain would the Knight in turn require The name and state of Ellen's sire.

Well show'd the elder lady's mien,

That courts and cities she had seen;

Ellen, though more her looks display'd The simple grace of sylvan maid,

In speech and gesture, form and face, Show'd she was come of gentle race.

'Twere strange , in ruder rank to find,

Such looks, such manners, and such mind. Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, Dame Margaret heard with silence grave; Or Ellen , innocently gay,

Turn'd all inquiry light away:—

' Weird women we! by dale and down, We dwell, afar from tower and town We stem the flood, we ride the blast. On wandering knights our spells we cast; While viewless minstrels touch the string, 'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.' She sang, and still a harp unseen Fill'd up the symphony between.

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XXXI.

Song.

'Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking Dream of battled fields no more.

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall.

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall.

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy wafare o'er.

Dream of fighting fields no more!

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

'No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing. Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the day-break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum.

Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near,

Guards nor warders challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.'

XXX1L

She paused—then, blushing, led the lay To grace the stranger of the day. Her mellow notes awhile prolong The cadence of the flowing song,

Till to her lips in measured frame The minstrel verse spontaneous came.

Sony continued. 'Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveille.

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Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

Think not of the rising sun,

For at dawning to assail ye,

Here no bngles sound reveillé.

XXXIII.

The hall was clear'd—the stranger's bed

Was there of mountain heather spread.

Where oft a hundred guests had lain,

And dream'd their forest sports again.

But vainly did the heath-flower shed

Its moorland fragrance round his head;

Not Ellon's spell had lull'd to rest

The fever of his troubled breast.

In broken dreams the image rose

Of varied perils, pains, and woes:

His steed now flounders in the brake.

Now sinks his barge upon the lake;

Now leader of a broken host.

His standard falls, his honour's lost.

Then,—from my couch may heavenly might

Chase that worst phantom of the night!—

Again return'd the scenes of youth,

Of confident undoubting truth;

Again his soul he interchanged

With friends whose hearts were long estranged.

They come, in dim procession led,

The cold, the faithless, and the dead;

As warm each hand, each brow as gay,

As if they parted yesterday.

And doubt distracts him at the view,

O were his senses false or true!

Dream'd he of death, or broken vow,

Or is it all a vision now!

XXXIV.

At length, with Ellen in a grove

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He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;

She listen'd with a blush and sigh,

His suit was warm, his hopes were high.

He sought her yielded hand to clasp.

And a cold gaimtlet met his grasp:

The phantom's sex was changed and gone,

Upon its head a helmet shone;

Slowly enlarged to giant size.

With darken'd cheek and threatening eyes.

The grisly visage, stern and hoar.

To Ellen still a likeness bore.—

He woke, and, panting with affright,

Recall'd the vision of the night.

The hearth's decaying brands were red,

And deep and dusky lustre shed,

Half showing, half concealing, all

The uncouth trophies of the hall.

Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye.

Where that huge falchion hung on high,

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng,

Rush'd chasing countless thoughts along.

Until, the giddy whirl to cure,

He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.

XXXV.

The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,

Wafted around their rich perfume:

The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm,

The aspens slept beneath the calm;

The silver light, with quivering glance,

Play'd on the water's still expanse,—

Wild were the heart whose passions' sway

Could rage beneath the sober ray!

He felt its calm, that warrior guest,

While thus he communed with his breast:—

'Why is it at each turn I trace

Some memory of that exiled race ?

Can I not mountain-maiden spy.

But she must bear the Douglas eye?

Can I not view a Highland brand,

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But it must match the Douglas hand?

Can I not frame a fever'd dream,

But still the Douglas is the theme ?

I'll dream no more—by manly mind Not even in sleep is -will resign'd.

My midnight orisons said o'er,

I'll turn to rest, and dream no more.'

His midnight orisons he told,

A prayer with every bead of gold,

Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes.

And sunk in undisturb'd repose;

Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,

And morning dawn'd on Benvenue.

canto second.

The Island.

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,

Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, All Nature's children feel the matin spring

Of life reviving, with reviving day;

And while yon little bark glides down the bay,

Wafting the stranger on his way again,

Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel grey,

And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,

Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white hair'd Allan-bane !

II.

Song.

'Not faster yonder rowers' might

Flings from their oars the spray,

Not faster yonder rippling bright,

That tracks the shallop's course in light,

Melts in the lake away.

Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lonely isle.

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162

' High place to thee in royal court,

High place in battle line,

Good hawk and hound for silvan sport, Where beauty sees the brave resort.

The honour'd meed be thine;

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear. And lost in love and friendship's smile Be memory of the lonely isle.

nr.

Song continued.

'But if beneath yon southern sky

A plaided stranger roam,

Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh. And sunken cheek and heavy eye,

Pine for his Highland home;

Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap ere while, A stranger in the lonely isle.

'Or if on life's uncertain maiu

Mishap shall mar thy sail;

If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain

Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged. But come where kindred worth shall smile. To greet thee in the lonely isle.'

As died the sounds upon the tide. The shallop reach'd the mainland side. And ere his onward way he took₎The stranger cast a lingering look,

Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beech,

Eeclined against a blighted tree,

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As wasted, grey, and worn as he. To minstrel meditation given, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame.

His hand, reclined upon the wire,

Seem'd watching the awakening fire; So still he sate, as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair;

So still, as life itself were fled,

In the last sound his harp had sped.

Upon a rock with lichens wild.

Beside him Ellen sate and smiled.— Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet upon the lake,

While her vex'd spaniel, from the beach, Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach? Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows. Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose?— Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!

Perchance the maiden smiled to see Ton parting lingerer wave adieu, And stop and turn to wave anew; And, lovely ladies, ere your ire Condemn the heroine of my lyre,

Show me the fair would scorn to spy, And prize such conquest of her eye!

VI.

While yet he loiter'd on the spot. It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; But when he turn'd him to the glade, One courteous parting sign she made; And after, oft the knight would say, That not when prize of festal day Was dealt him by the brightest fair. Who e'er wore jewel in her hair.

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So highly did his bosom swell,

As at that simple mute farewell.

Now with a trusty mountain-guide,

And his dark stag-hounds by his side, He parts—the maid, unconscious still, Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill; But when his stately form was hid, The guardian in her bosom chid— ' Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid!' 'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,— 'Not so had Malcolm idly hung On the smooth phrase of southern tongue; Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye, Another step than thine to spy.'

' Wake, Allan-Bane,' aloud she cried, To the old Minstrel by her side,—

'Arouse thee from thy moody dream! I'll give thy harp heroic theme.

And warm thee with a noble name;

Pour forth the glory of the Graeme!'

Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd. When deep the conscious maiden blush'd; For of his clan, and hall and bower,

Young Malcolm Grajme was held the flower.

VII.

The Minstrel waked his harp—three times

Arose the well-known martial chimes,

And thrice their high heroic pride

In melancholy murmurs died.

'Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid,¹

Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann'd

I touch the chords of joy, but low

And mournful answer notes of woe;

And the proud march, which victors tread,

Sinks in the wailing for the dead.—

O well for me, if mine alone

That dirge's deep prophetic tone!

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If, as my tuneful fathers said,

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd. Can thus its master's fate foretell.

Then welcome be the minstrel's knell!

VIII.

'But ah! dear lady! thus it sigh'd

The eve thy sainted mother died;

And such the sounds which, while I strove

To wake a lay of war or love,

Came marring all the festal mirth.

Appalling me who gave them birth,

And, disobedient to my call,

Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd hall,

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven.

Were exiled from their native heaven.—

Oh! if yet worse mishap and woe,

My master's house must undergo.

Or aught but weal to Ellen fair,

Brood in these accents of despair.

No future bard, sad Harp! shall fling

Triumph or rapture from thy string;

One short, one final strain shall flow,

Fraught with unutterable woe,

Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie.

Thy master cast him down and die!'

IX.

Soothing she answer'd him, ' Assuage,

Mine honour'd friend, the fears of age; All melodies to thee are known,

That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, In Lowland vale or Highland glen.

From Tweed to Spey—what marvel, then, At times, unbidden notes should rise, Confusedly bound in memory's ties. Entangling, as they rush along. The war-march with the funeral song?— Small ground is now for boding fear; Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.

My sire, in native virtue great.

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166

Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resign'd,

Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reave. The noble stem they cannot grieve. For me,'—she stoop'd, and, looking round, Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground,— ' For me, whose memory scarce conveys An image of more splendid days.

This little flower, that loves the lea. May well my simple emblem be;

It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose That in the king's own garden grows; And when I place it in my hair,

Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne'er saw coronet so fair.'

Then playfully the chaplet wild She wreath'd in her dark locks, and smiled..

Her smile, her speech, with winning sway _rWiled the old harper's mood away.

With such a look as hermits throw ,

When angels stoop to soothe their woe. He gazed, till fond regret and pride Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied: 'Loveliest and best! thou little know'st The rank, the honours, thou hast lost! O might I live to see thee grace. In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, To see my favourite's step advance. The lightest in the courtly dance,

The cause of every gallant's sigh, And leading star of every eye,

And theme of every minstrel's art.

The Lady of the Bleeding Heart! '

XI.

«Fair dreams are these,' the maiden cried,. (Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd;) 'Yet ist his mossy rock to me

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Worth splendid chair and canopy; Nor would my footsteps spring more gay , In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, Nor half so pleased mine ear incline To royal minstrel's lay as thine.

And then for suitors proud and high, To bend before my conquering eye,—

Thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say,

That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride. The terror of Loch Lomond's side,

Would, at my suit, thou know'st delay A Lennox foray—for a day.' —

XII.

The ancient bard his glee repress'd:

'111 hast thou chosen theme for jest!

For who, through all this western wild.

Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled!

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ;

I saw, when back the dirk he drew,

Courtiers give place before the stride

Of the undaunted homicide;

And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand

Full sternly kept his mountain land.

Who else dared give—ah! woe the clay.

That I such hated truth should say —

The Douglas, like a stricken deer,

Disown'd by every noble peer,

Even the rude refuge we have here?

Alas, this wild marauding Chief

Alone might hazard our relief,

And now thy maiden charms expand.

Looks for his guerdon in thy band;

Full soon may dispensation sought.

To back his suit, from Rome be brought.

Then, though an exile on the hill.

Thy father, as the Douglas, still

Be held in reverence and fear;

And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear.

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That thou mightst guide with silken thread, Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread; Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain! Thy hand is on a lion's name.'—

XIII.

'Minstrel,' the maid replied, and high Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 'My debts to Roderick's house I know: All that a mother could bestow,

To Lady Margaret's care I owe,

Since first an orphan in the wild She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child;

To her bravo chieftain son, from ire Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, A deeper, holier debt is owed;

And, could I pay it with my blood,

Allan! Sir Roderick should command My blood, my life,—but not my hand. Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votaress in Maronnan's cell;

Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world's cold charity,

Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word, And ne'er the name of Douglas heard. An outcast pilgrim will she rove.

Than wed the man she cannot love.

XIV.

'Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses grey,— That pleading look, what can it say But what I own ?—I grant him brave, But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave; And generous—save vindictive mood, Or jealous transport, chafe his blood: I grant him true to friendly band.

As his claymore is to his hand; But 0! that very blade of steel More mercy for a foe would feel:

I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring,

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löf

quot;When back by lake and glen they wind ,

And in the Lowland leave behind,

quot;Where once some pleasant hamlet stood A mass of ashes slaked with blood.

The hand that for my father fought,

I honour, as his daughter ought;

But can I clasp it reeking red,

From peasants slaughter'd in their shed?

No! wildly while his virtues gleam.

They make his passions darker seem,

And flash along his spirit high,

Like lightning o'er the midnight sky.

While yet a child,—and children know,

Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,—

I shudder'd at his brow of gloom.

His shadowy plaid, and sable plume;

A maiden grown, I ill could bear His haughty mien and lordly air:

But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim.

In serious mood, to Roderick's name,

I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er A Douglas knew the word, with fear.

To change such odious theme were best,—

What think'st thou of our stranger guest!' —

XV.

'What think I of him?—woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle!

Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tine-man forged by fairy lore.

What time he leagued, no longer foes,

His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe.

If courtly spy hath harbour'd here,

What may we for the Douglas fear?

What for this island, deem'd of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold?

If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say!

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—Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, Bethink thee of the discord dread,

That kindled, when at Beltane game Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme; Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd, Smoulders in Eoderick's breast the feud; Beware!—But hark, what sounds are these ? My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, Nor breath is dimpling in the lake,

Still is the canna's hoary beard,

Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard— And hark again! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar.'

XVI.

Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied Pour darkening specks upon the tide,

That, slow enlarging on the view,

Four mann'd and masted barges grew. And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steer'd full upon the lonely isle;

The point of Brianchoil they pass'd,

And, to the windward as they cast.

Against the sun they gave to shine The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine. Nearer and nearer as they bear,

Spear, pikes, and axes flash in air. Now might you see the tartans brave. And plaids and plumage dance and wave : Now see the bonnets sink and rise,

As his tough oar the rower plies ; See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, And mark the gaudy streamers flow From their loud chanters down, and sweep The furrow'd bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain,

They plied the ancient Highland strain.

XVII.

Ever, as on they bore, more loud

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And louder rung the pibroch proud.

At first the sound, by distance tame , Mellow'd along the waters came , And, lingering long by cape and bay , Wail'd every harsher note away;

Then bursting bolder on the ear,

The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear; Those thrilling sounds, that call the might Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when The mustering hundreds shake the glen, And, hurrying at the signal dread, The batter'd earth returns their tread.

Then prelude light, of livelier tone, Express'd their merry marching on,

Ere peal of closing battle rose ,

With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; And mimic din of stroke and ward, As broad sword upon target jarr'd; And groaning pause, ere yet again, Condensed, the battle yell'd amain; The rapid charge, the rallying shout, Retreat borne headlong into rout, And bursts of triumph, to declare Clan-Alpine's conquest—all were there. Nor ended thus the strain; but slow ,

Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low , And changed the conquering clarion swell, For wild lament o'er those that fell.

XVIII.

The war-pipes ceased; but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still; And, when they slept, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again,

While loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their Chieftain's praise. ■ Each boatman, bending to his oar,

With measured sweep the burthen bore, In such wild cadence, as the breeze

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Makes tlirougli December's leafless trees,

The chorus first could Allan know ,

' Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro!'

And near, and nearer as they row'd,

Distinct the martial ditty flow'd.

XIX.

Boat Song.

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! .

Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine!

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew,

j Earth lend it sap anew,

Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow ,

While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen,

' Roderlgh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain ,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moor'd in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then.

Echo his praise agen,

'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!¹

XX.

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,

And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;

Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin. And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead pn her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

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Shake when they hear agen,

'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine! O! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,

quot;Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen,

' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu , ho ! ieroe!'

XXI.

With all her joyful female band,

Had Lady Margaret sought the strand.

Loose on the breeze their tresses flew,

And high their snowy arms they threw,

As echoing back with shrill acclaim,

And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name;

While, prompt to please, with mother's art, The darling passion of his heart,

The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand.

To greet her kinsman ere he land:

' Come , loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou,

And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?'— Reluctantly and slow, the maid The unwelcome summoning obey'd,

And, when a distant bugle rung.

In the mid-path aside she sprung: —

'List, Allan-bane! From mainland cast,

I hear my father's signal blast.

Be ours,' she cried, ' the skiff to guide,

And waft him from the mountain side.

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright She darted to her shallop light.

And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd.

For her dear form, his mother's band,

The islet far behind her lay,

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And ahe had landed in the bay.

XXII.

Some feelings are to mortals given,

With less of earth in them than heaven: And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain a' angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head!

And as the Douglas to his breast His darling Ellen closely press'd.

Such holy drops her tresses steep'd.

Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd. Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung,

Mark'd ahe, that fear (affection's proof)

Still held a graceful youth aloof;

No! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcolm Grteme.

XXIII.

Allan, with wistful look the while,

Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed,

Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said,

' Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy In my poor follower's glistening eye? I'll tell thee:—he recalls the day.

When in my praise he led the lay O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answer'd loud, When Percy's Norman pennon, won In bloody field , before me shone, And twice ten knights, the least a name As mighty as yon Chief may claim,

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'Gracing my pomp, behind me came. Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshall'd crowd,

Though the waned crescent own'd my might, And in my train troop'd lord and knight, Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays, And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise. As when this old man's silent tear, And this poor maid's affection dear, A welcome give more kind and true,

Than aught my better fortunes knew. Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, O! it out-beggars all I lost!'

XXIV.

Delightful praise!—Like summer rose,

That brighter in the dew-drop glows, The bashful-maiden's cheek appear'd, For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. The flush of shame-faced joy to hide, The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; The loved caresses of the maid The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; And, at her whistle, on her hand The falcon took her favourite stand,

Closed his dark wing, relax'd bis eye, Nor, though] unhooded, sought to fly. And, trust, while in such guise she stood , Like fabled Goddess of the wood,

That if a father's partial thought O'erweigh'd her^worth and beauty aught, Well might the lover's judgment fail To balance with a juster scale;

For with each secret glance he stole, The fond enthusiast sent his soul.

XXV.

Of stature tall, and slender frame, But' firmly Jmit, was Malcolm Graeme. The'.beltedjplaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose;

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His flaxen hair of sunny hue,

Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue.

Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye

The ptarmigan in snow could spy:

Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath,

Ho knew, through Lennox and Menteith;

Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe.

When Malcolm bent his sounding bow,

And scarce that doe, though wing'd with fear,.

Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer:

Eight up Ben-Lomond could he press,

And not a sob his toil confess.

His form accorded with a mind

Lively and ardent, frank and kind;

A blither heart, till Ellen came.

Did never love nor sorrow tame;

It danced as lightsome in his breast.

As play'd the feather on his crest.

Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth.

His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth,

And bards, who saw his features bold.

When kindled by the tales of old.

Said, were that youth to manhood grown,

Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown

Be foremost voiced by mountain fame.

But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme.

XXVI.

Now back they wend their watery way. And , ' O my sire!' did Ellen say, 'Why urge thy chase so far astray? And why so late return'd? And whyquot;— The rest was in her speaking eye. ' My child, the chase I follow far, 'Tis mimicry of noble war;

And with that gallant pastime reft Were all of Douglas I have left.

I met young Malcolm as I stray'd, Far eastward, in Glenfinlaa' shade , Nor stray'd I safe; for, all around.

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Hunters and horsemen soour'd the ground. This youth, though still a royal ward, Risk'd life and land to be my guard, And through the passes of the wood, Guided my steps, not unpursued; And Koderick shall his welcome make, Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake.

Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, Nor peril ought for me agen.'

XXVII.

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, Tet, not in action, word, or eye,

Fail'd aught in hospitality.

In talk and sport they whiled away, The morning of that summer day;

But at high noon a courier light Held secret parley with the knight,

Whose moody aspect soon declared,

That evil were the news he heard.

Deep thought seem'd toiling in his head; Tet was the evening banquet made,

Ere he assembled round the flame, His mother, Douglas, and the Grseme, And Ellen, too; then cast aroand His eyes, then fix'd them on the ground, As studying phrase that might avail Best to convey unpleasant tale.

Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd. Then raised his haughty brow, and said:—

XXVIII.

'Short be my speech;—nor time affords, Nor my plain temper, glozing words. Kinsman and father,—if such name Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim; Mine honour'd mother;—Ellen—why, Mycousin , turn away thine eye?— And Greeme; in whom I hope to know Full soon a noble friend or foe,

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When age shall give thee thy command, And leading in thy native land,—

List all!—The King's vindictive pride Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, Where chiefs, with hound and hawk who came To share their monarch's sylvan game. Themselves in bloody toils were snared; And when the banquet they prepared, And wide their loyal portals flung. O'er their own gateway struggling hung. Loud cries their blood from Meggat's mead, From Yarrow braes, and banks of Tweed, Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide, And from the silver Teviot's side; The dales, where martial clans did ride. Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. This tyrant of the Scottish throne. So faithless and so ruthless known. Now hither comes; his end the same. The same pretext of sylvan game.

What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye. By fate of Border chivalry.

Yet more; amid Glenfinlaa green,

Douglas, thy stately form was seen.

This by espial sure I know;

Your counsel in the streight I show.'

XXIX.

Ellen and Margaret fearfully Sought comfort in each other's eye.

Then turn'd their ghastly look, each one, This to her sire—that to her son. The hasty colour went and came In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme; But from his glance it well appear'd,

'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd;

While, sorrowful, but undismay'd. The Douglas thus his counsel said:—

' Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar, It may but thunder and pass o'er;

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Nor will I here remain an hour,

To draw the lightning on thy bower; For well thou know'st, at this grey head The royal bolt were fiercest sped.

For thee, who, at thy King's command, Canst aid him with a gallant band, Submission, homage, humbled- pride,

Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside.

Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,

Ellen and I will seek, apart.

The refuge of some forest cell.

There, like the hunted quarry, dwell,

Till on the mountain and the moor. The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er.'—

XXX.

' No, by mine honourRoderick said, 'So help me, heaven, and my good blade! No, never! Blasted be yon Pine,

My fathers' ancient crest and mine,

If from its shade in danger part The lineage of the Bleeding Heart!

Hear my blunt speech: Grand me this maid To wife, thy counsel to mine aid; To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu, Will friends and allies flock enow;

Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief.

Will bind to us each Western Chief.

When the loud pipes my bridal tell, The Links of Forth shall hear the knell. The guards shall start in Stirling's porch; And, when I light the nuptial torch, A thousand villages in flames,

Shall scare the slumbers of King James! —Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, And, mother, cease these signs, I pray; I meant not all my heart might say.—

Small need of inroad, or of fight.

When the sage Douglas may unite Each mountain clan in friendly band,

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To guard the passes of their land,

Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen,

Shall bootless turn him home agen.'

xxxr.

There are who have, at midnight hour,

In slumber scaled a dizzy tower,

And, on the verge that beetled o'er

The ocean-tide's incessant roar,

Dream'd calmly out their dangerous dream,

Till waken'd by the morning beam;

When, dazzled by the eastern glow.

Such startler cast his glance below,

And saw unmeasured depth around,

And heard unintermitted sound,

And thought the battled fence so frail,

It waved like cobweb in the gale;—

Amid his senses' giddy wheel.

Did he not desperate impulse feel ,

Headlong to plunge himself below,

And meet the worst his fears foreshow?—

Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound.

As sudden ruin yawn'd around.

By crossing terrors wildly toss'd ,

Still for the Douglas fearing most,

Could scarce the desperate thought withstand,.

To buy his safety with her hand.

XXXII.

Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy In Ellen's quivering lip and eye.

And eager rose to speak—but ere His tongue could hurry forth his fear, Had Douglas mark'd the hectic strife.

Where death seem'd combating with life; For to her cheeck, in feverish flood, One instant rush'd the throbbing blood.

Then ebbing back, with sudden sway,

Left its domain as wan as clay.

'Eoderick, enough! enough!' he cried,

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'My daughter cannot be thy bride;

Not that the blush to wooer dear. Nor paleness that of maiden fear.

It may not be—forgive her, Chief, Nor hazard aught for our relief.

Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er Will level a rebellious spear.

Twas I that taught his youthful hand To rein a steed and wield a brand;

I see him yet, the princely boy!

Not Ellen more my pride and joy;

I love him still, despite my wrongs, By hasty wrath, and slanderous tongues. O seek the grace you well may find, Without a cause to mine combined.¹

XXXIII.

Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode; The waving of his tartans broad. And darken'd brow, where wounded pride With ire and disappointment vied,

Seem'd, by the torch's gloomy light,

Like the ill Demon of the night.

Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: But, unrequited Love! thy dart Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart, And Roderick, with thine anguish stung. At length the hand of Douglas wrung. While eyes, that mock'd at tears before, With bitter drops were running o'er. The death-pangs of long-cherish'd hope Scarce in that ample breast had scope, But, struggling with his spirit proud, Convulsive heaved its chequer'd shroud. While every sob—so mute were all— Was heard distinctly through the hall. The son's despair, the mother's look, HI might the gentle Ellen brook;

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She rose, and to her side there came,

To aid her parting steps, the Graeme.

XXXIV.

Then Roderick from the Douglas broke—

As flashes flame through sable smoke,

Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low.

To one broad blaze of ruddy glow.

So the deep anguish of despair

Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air.

With stalwart grasp his hand he laid

On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid:

'Back, minion! hold'st thou thus at naught

The lesson I so lately taught?

This roof, the Douglas, and that maid.

Thank thou for punishment delay'd.'

Eager as greyhound on his game,

Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme.

'Perish my name, if aught afford

Its Chieftain safety save his sword!'

Thus as they strove, their desperate hand

Griped to the dagger or the brand.

And death had been—but Douglas rose,

And thrust between the struggling foes

His giant strength:—' Chieftains, forego!

I hold the first who strikes, my foe.—

Madmen, forbear your frantic jar!

What! is the Douglas fall'n so far.

His daughter's hand is doom'd the spoil

Of such dishonourable broil!'

Sullen and slowly they unclasp,

As struck with shame, their desperate grasp_r

And each upon his rival glared.

With foot advanced, and blade half bared.

XXXV.

Ere yet the brands aloft were flung,

Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung, And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, As, falter'd through terrific dream.

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Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword, And veil'd his wrath in scornful word.

'Rest safe till morning; pity 'twere Such cheek should feel the midnight air! Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell, Roderick will keep the lake and fell, Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan, The pageant pomp of earthly man.

More would he of Clan-Alpine know.

Thou canst our strength and passes show.— Malise, what ho!'—his henchman came; 'Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme.'

Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and bold, ' Fear nothing for thy favourite hold; The spot, an angel deigned to grace, Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the place. Thy churlish courtesy for those Reserve, who fear to be thy foes.

As safe to me the mountain way At midnight as in blaze of day.

Though with his boldest at his back Even Roderick Dhu beset the track.—

Brave Douglas,—lovely Ellen,—nay.

Nought here of parting will I say.

Earth does not hold a lonesome glen. So secret, but we meet agen.—

Chieftain! we too shall find an hour.— He said, and left the sylvan bower.

XXXVI.

Old Allan follow'd to the strand,

(Such was the Douglas's command,) And anxious told, how, on the morn, The Fiery Cross should circle o'er Dale, glen, and valley, down , and moor. Much were the peril to the Graeme,

From those who to the signal came;

Far up the lake 'twere safest land.

Himself would row him to the strand. He gave his counsel to the wind.

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While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind,

Round dirk and pouch and broadsword roll'd, His ample plaid in tighteu'd fold, And stripp'd his limbs to such array.

As best might suit the watery way,—

XXXVII.

Then spoke abrupt: 'Farewell to thee. Pattern of old fidelity!'

The Minstrel's hand he kindly press'd,— '0! could I point a place of rest! My sovereign holds in ward iny land. My uncle leads my vassal band;

To tame his foes, his friends to aid,

Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme, Who loves the Chieftain of his name. Not long shall honour'd Douglas dwell,

Like hunted stag in mountain cell;

Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare,— I may not give the rest to air!

Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him nought, Not the poor service of a boat.

To waft me to yon mountain-side.'

Then plunged he in the flashing tide.

Bold o'er the flood his head he hore. And stoutly steer'd him from the shore; And Allan strain'd his anxious eye,

Far 'mid the lake his form to spy.

Darkening across each puny wave.

To which the moon her silver gave.

Fast as the cormorant could skim, The swimmer plied each active limb;

Then landing in the moonlight dell.

Loud shouted of his weal to tell.

The Minstrel heard the far halloo.

And joyful from the shore withdrew.

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cakio third.

'Ihe Gathering.

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,

Who danced our infancy upon their knee,

And told our marvelling boyhood legends store,

Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be!

How few, all weak and wither'd of their force,

Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse. To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Yet live there still who can remember well,

How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew.

Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,

And solitary heath, the signal knew;

And fast the faithful clan around him drew.

What time the warning note was keenly wound.

What time aloft their kindred banner flew.

While clamorous war-pipes yell'd the gathering sound, And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor round.

II.

The summer dawn's reflected hue

To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;

Mildly and soft the western breeze

Just kiss'd the Lake, just stirr'd the trees,

And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,

Trembled but dimpled not for joy;

The mountain-shadows on her breast

Were neither broken nor at rest;

In bright uncertainty they lie,

Like future joys to Fancy's eye.

The water-lily to the light

Her chalice rear'd of silver bright;

The doe awoke, and to the lawn,

Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn;

The grey mist left the mountain side.

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The torrent show'd its glistening pride;

Invisible in flecked sky,

The lark sent down her revelry;

The blackbird and the speckled thrush

Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;

In answer coo'd the cushat dove

Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

in.

No thought of peace, no thought of rest. Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. With sheathed broadsword in his hand. Abrupt he paced the islet strand, And eyed the rising sun, and laid His hand on his impatient blade.

Beneath a rock, his vassals' care Was prompt the ritual to prepare,

With deep and deathful meaning fraught; For such Antiquity had taught Was preface meet, ere yet abroad The Cross of Fire should take its road. The shrinking band stood oft aghast At the impatient glance he cast;—

Such glance the mountain eagle threw, As, from the cliffs of Benvenue, She spread her dark sails on the wind. And, high in middle heaven, reclined, With her broad shadow on the lake. Silenced the warblers of the brake.

IV.

A heap of wither'd boughs was piled. Of juniper and rowan wild.

Mingled with shivers from the oak,

Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian, the Hermit, by it stood. Barefooted, in his frock and hood. His grisled beard and matted hair His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er. The scars of frantic penance bore.

That monk, of savage form and face.

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The impending danger of his race Had drawn from deepest solitude,

Far in Benharrow's bosom rude.

Not his the mien of Christian priest, But Druid's, from the grave released.

Whose harden'd heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look;

And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. The hallow'd creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse;

No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer. His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care, The eager huntsman knew his bound,

And in mid chase call'd off his hound;

Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert-dweller met his path,

He pray'd, and sign'd the cross between. While terror took devotion's mien.

Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. His mother watch'd a midnight fold,

Built deep within a dreary glen,

Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, In some forgotten battle slain,

And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. It might have tamed a warrior's heart, To view such mockery of his art! The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand, Which once could burst an iron band; Beneath the broad and ample bone.

That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest,

The field-fare framed her lowly nest;

There the slow blind-worm left his slime On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time; And there, too, lay the leader's skull.

Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd and full. For heath-bell with her purple bloom,

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Supplied the bonnet and the plume. All night, in this sad glen, the maid Sate, shrouded iu her mantle's shade: —She said, no shepherd sought her side, No hunter's hand her snood untied. Yet ne'er again to braid her hair The virgin snood did Alice wear;

Gone was her maiden glee and sport. Her maiden girdle all too short. Nor sought she, from that fatal night. Or holy church or blessed rite,

But lock'd her secret in her breast, And died in travail, unconfess'd.

VI.

Alone, among his young compeers, Was Brian from his infant years;

A moody and heart-broken boy,

Estrang'd from sympathy and joy,

Bearing each taunt which careless tongue On his mysterious lineage flung.

Whole nights he spent by moonlight x)ale. To wood and stream his hap to wail,

Till, frantic, he as truth received What of his birth the crowd believed. And sought, in mist and meteor fire. To meet and know his Phantom Sire! In vain, to soothe his wayward fate. The cloister oped her pitying gate;

In vain, the learning of the age Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page;

Even in its treasures he could find Food for the fever of his mind.

Eager he read whatever tells Of magic, cabala, and spells.

And every dark pursuit allied To curious and presumptuous pride;

Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung. And heart with mystic horrors wrung. Desperate he sought Benharrow's den.

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And hid him from the haunts of men.

VII.

The desert gave him visions wild,

Such as might suit the Spectre's child.

Where with black cliffs the torrents toil.

He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil,

Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes

Beheld the River Demon rise;

The mountain mist took form and limb,

Of noontide hag, or goblin grim;

The midnight wind came wild and dread,

Swell'd with the voices of the dead;

Far on the future battle-heath

His eye beheld the ranks of death:

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd,

Shaped forth a disembodied world.

One lingering sympathy of mind

Still bound him to the mortal kind;

The only parent he could claim

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came.

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream,

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream;

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast,

Of charging steeds, careering fast

Along Benharrow's shingly side,

Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride;

The thunderbolt had split the pine,—

All augur'd ill to Alpine's line.

He girt his loins, and came to show

The signals of impending woe.

And now stood prompt to bless or ban,

As bade the Chieftain of his clan.

VIII.

'Twas all prepared;—and from the rock, A goat, the patriarch of the flock,

Before the kindling pile was laid, And pierced by Roderick's roady l/kde. Patient the sickening victim eyed The life-blood ebb in crimson tide.

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Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy limb, Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, A slender crosslet fram'd with care, A cubit's length in measure due; The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave. And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. The Cross, thus form'd, he held on high. With wasted hand, and haggard eye. And strange and mingled feelings woke. While his anathema he spoke.

IX.

'Woe to the clansman, who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew.

Forgetful that its branches grew Where weep the heavens their holiest dew

On Alpine's dwelling low!

Deserter of his Chieftain's trust.

He ne'er shall mingle with their dust. But, from his sires and kindred thrust. Each clansman's execration just

Shall doom him wrath and woe.' He paused;—the word the vassals took, With forward step and fiery look,

On high their naked brands they shook, Their clattering targets wildly strook;

And first in murmur low.

Then, like the billow in his course.

That far to seaward finds his source, And flings to shore his muster'd force, Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse

'Woe to the traitor, woe!'

Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew. The joyous wolf from covert drew. The exulting eagle scream'd afar,—

They knew the voice of Alpine's war.

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The shout -was hush'd on lake and fell, The monk resumed his mutter'd spell: Dismal and low its accents came,

The while he scathed the Cross with flame; And the few words that reach'd the air, Although the holiest name was there, Had more of blasphemy than prayer. But when he shook above the crowd Its kindled points, he spoke aloud:— 'Woe to the wretch who fails to rear At this dread sign the ready spear!

For, as the flames this symbol sear, His home, the refuge of his fear,

A kindred fate shall know;

Far o'er its roof the volumed flame Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim. While maids and matrons on his name Shall call down wretchedness and shame,

And infamy and woe.'

Then rose the cry of females, shrill As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill. Denouncing misery and ill.

Mingled with childhood's babbling trill

Of curses stammer'd slow;

Answering, with imprecation dread,

'Sunk be his home in embers red! And cursed be the meanest shed That e'er shall hide the houseless head,

We doom to want and woe!'

A sharp and shrieking echo gave, Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave!

And the grey pass where birches wave. On Beala-nam-bo.

XI.

Then deeper paused the priest anew. And hard his labouring breath he drew. While, with set teeth and clenched hand. And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand.

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192

He meditated curse more dread, And deadlier, on the clansman's head, Who summon'd to his Chieftain's aid, The signal saw and disobey'd.

The crosslet'a points of sparkling wood, He quench'd among the bubbling blood, And, as again the sign he rear'd,

Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: 'When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan.

Burst be the ear that fails to heed!

Palsied the foot that shuns to speed! May ravens tear the careless eyes.

Wolves make the coward heart their prize! As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth t As dies in hissing gore the spark.

Quench thou his light. Destruction dark! And be the grace to him denied.

Bought by this sign to all beside!' He ceased; no echo gave agen The murmnf of the deep Amen.

XII.

Then Roderick, with impatient look,

From Brian's hand the symbol took:

'Speed, Malise, speed!' he said, and gave The crosslet to his henchman brave. 'The muster-place be Lanrick mead— Instant the time—speed, Malise, speed!' Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, A barge across Loch Katriue flew;

High stood the henchman on the prow; So rapidly the barge-men row.

The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat.

Dancing in foam and ripple still,

quot;When it had near'J the mainland hill; And from the silver beach's side Still was the prow three fathom wide,

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When lightly bounded to the land The messenger of blood and brand.

xni.

Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide On fleeter foot was never tied.

Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste Thine active sinews never braced.

Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, Burst down like torrent from its crest; With short and springing footstep pass The trembling bog and false morass; Across the brook like roebuck bound. And thread the brake like questing hound The crag is high, the scaur is deep, Yet shrink not from the desperate leap; Parch'd are thy burning lips and brow, Tet by the fountain pause not now; Herald of battle, fate, and fear.

Stretch onward in thy fleet career! The wounded hind thou track'st not now, Pursuest not maid through greenwood bough Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace,

With rivals in the mountain race; But danger, death, and warrior deed, Are in thy course—speed, Malise, speed!

XIV.

Fast as the fatal symbol flies,

In arms the huts and hamlets rise;

From winding glen, from upland brown , They pour'd each hardy tenant down. Nor slack'd the messenger his pace; He show'd the sign, he named the place, And, pressing forward like the wind,

Left clamour and surprise behind. The fisherman forsook the strand, The swarthy smith took dirk and brand; With changed cheer, the mower blithe Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe;

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The herds without a keeper stray'd, The plough was in mid-furrow staid, The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, The hunter left the stag at bay;

Prompt at the signal of alarms.

Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms; So swept the tumult and affray Along the margin of Achray.

Alas, thou lovely lake! that e'er Thy banks should echo sounds of fear! The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep So stilly on thy bosom deep.

The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, Seems for the scene too gaily loud,

XV.

Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past, Duncraggan's huts appear at last. And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen, Half hidden in the copse so green;

There mayest thou rest, thy labour done, Their Lord shall speed the signal on.— As stoops the hawk upon his prey, The henchman shot him down the way. —What woeful accents load the gale? The funeral yell, the female wail! A gallant hunter's sport is o'er,

A valiant warrior fights no more.

Who, in the battle or the chase, At Roderick's side shall fill his place!— Within the hall, where torches' ray Supplies the excluded beams of day.

Lies Duncan on his lowly bier,

And o'er him streams his widow's tear. His stripling son stands mournful by. His youngest weeps, but knows not why; The village maids and matrons round The dismal coronach resound.

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XVI.

Conorach,

He ia gone on the mountain.

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain.

When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing.

From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering. To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary. But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage coui sel in cumber.

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

XVII.

See Stumah, who, the bier beside, His master's corpse with wonder eyed. Poor Stumah! whom his least halloo Could send like lightning o'er the dew , Bristles his crest, and points his ears. As if some stranger step he hears. 'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, But headlong haste, or deadly fear,

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Urge the precipitate career.

All stand aghast:—unheeding all, The henchman bursts into the hall;

Before the dead man's bier he stood;

Held forth the Cross besmear'd with blood 'The muster-place is Lanrick mead;

Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!quot;

XV1I1.

Angus, the heir of Duncan's line,

Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. In haste the stripling to his side His father's dirk and broadsword tied; But when he saw his mother's eye Watch him in speechless agony,

Back to her open'd arms he flew,

Press'd on her lips a fond adieu—

'Alas!' she sobb'd,—'and yet, be gone. And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son!' One look he cast upon the bier,

Dash'd from his eye the gathering tear, Breathed deep to clear his labouring breast And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest,

Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed First he essays his fire and speed, He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. Suspended was the widow's tear.

While yet his footsteps she could hear; And when she mark'd the henchman's eye Wet with unwonted sympathy,

'Kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run.

That should have sped thine errand on; The oak has fall'n,—the sapling bough Is all Duncraggan's shelter now.

Tet trust 1 well, his duty done. The orphan's God will guard my son.— And you, in many a danger true. At Duncan's hest your blades that drew,. To arms, and guard that orphan's head!

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iLet babes and women wail the dead.'

Then weapon-clang, and martial call, Resounded through the funeral hall,

While from the walls the attendant band Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurried hand; And short and flitting energy Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, As if the sounds to warrior dear,

Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. But faded soon that borrow'd force;

Grief claim'd his right, and tears their course.

XIX.

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,

It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. O'er dale and hill the summons flew, Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew; The tear that gather'd in his eye He .left the mountain breeze to dry;

Until, where Teith's young waters roll. Betwixt him and a wooded knoll,

That graced the sable strath with green. The chapel of St. Bride was seen.

Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge , But Angus paused not on the edge;

Though the dark waves danced dizzily. Though reel'd his sympathetic eye, He dash'd amid the torrent's roar:

His right hand high the crosalet bore. His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide And stay his footing in the tide. He stumbled twice—the foam splash'd high. With hoarser swell the stream raced by; And had he fall'n, for ever there,

Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir! But still, as if in parting life.

Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife.

Until the opposing bank he gain'd.

And up the chapel pathway strain'd.

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XX.

A blithesome rout, that morning tide. Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. Her troth Tombea's Mary gave To Norman, heir of Armandave. And, issuing from the Gothic arch. The bridal now resumed their march. In rude, but glad procession, came Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; And plaided youth, with jest and jeer. Which snooded maiden would not hear; And children, that, unwitting why,

Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; And minstrels, that in measures vied Before the young and bonny bride,

Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose.

With virgin step, and bashful hand. She held the kerchief's snowy band; The gallant bridegroom by her side. Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her ear Was closely whispering word of cheer.

XXI.

Who meets them at the churchyard gate?'

The messenger of fear and fate!

Haste in hia hurried accent lies,

And grief is swimming in his eyes.

All dripping from the recent flood.

Panting and travel-soil'd he stood.

The fatal sign of fire and sword

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word

' The muster-place is Lanrick mead ;

Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!'

And must he change so soon the hand.

Just link'd to his by holy band,

For the fell Cross of blood and brand?

And must the day, so blithe that rose ^

And promised rapture in the close,

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Before its setting hour, divide The bridegroom from the plighted bride? 0 fatal doom!—it must! it must! Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, Her summons dread, brook no delay;

Stretch to the race—away! away!

XXII.

Tet slow he laid his plaid aside,

And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride ,

Until he saw the starting tear

Speak woe he might not stop to cheer;

Then, trusting not a second look ,

In haste he sped him up the brook,

Nor backward glanced, till on the heath

Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith.

—What in the racer's bosom stirr'd?

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd,

And memory, with a torturing train

Of all his morning visions vain.

Mingled with love's impatience, came

The manly thirst for martial fame;

The stormy joy of moutaineers,

Ere yet they rush upon the spears;

And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning.

And hope, from well-fought field returning.

With war's red honours on his crest,

To clasp his Mary to his breast.

Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae,

Like fire from flint he glanced away,

While high resolve, and feeling strong,

Burst into voluntary song.

XXIII.

Sonff.

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head. My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;

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200

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; I dare not think upon thy vow.

And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. His heart must be like bended bow, Hia foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught, For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if return'd from conquer'd foes. How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose,

To my young bride and me, Mary!

XXIV.

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, Balquidder, speed the midnight blaze. Rushing, in conflagration strong,

Thy deep ravines and dells along. Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, And reddening the dark lakes below; Nor faster speeds it, nor so far,

As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. The signal roused to martial coil The sullen margin of Loch Voil,

Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course; Thence southward turn'd its rapid road Adown Stratch-Gartney's valley broad.

Till rose in arms each man might claim A portion in Clan-Alpine's name;

From the grey sire, whose trembling hand

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Could hardly buckle on his brand,

To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow quot;Were yet scarce terror to the crow.

Each valley, each sequester'd glen Muster'd its little horde of men,

That met as torrents from the height In Highland dales their streams unite, Still gathering, as they pour along, A voice more loud, a tide more strong. Till at the rendezvous they stood By hundreds prompt for blows and blood Each train'd to arms since life began. Owning no tie but to his clan.

No oath, but by his chieftain's hand, No law, but Roderick Dhu's command.

XXV.

That summer morn had Roderick Dhu Survey'd the skirts of Ben venue,

And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath. To view the frontiers of Menteith. All backward came with news of truce; Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait, No banner waved on Cardross gate. On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, Nor scared the herons from Loch Con; All seem'd at peace.—Now, wot ye why The Chieftain, with such anxious eye, Ere to the muster he repair.

This western frontier scann'd with care?-In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, A fair, though cruel, pledge was left; For Douglas, to his promise true,

That morning from the isle withdrew. And in a deep sequester'd dell Had sought a low and lonely cell. By many a bard, in Celtic tongue. Has- Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung;

A softer name the Saxons gave. And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave.

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202

XXVI.

It was a wild and strange retreat,

As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. The dell, upon the mountain's crest, Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast; Its trench had staid full many a rock, Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shook From Benvenne's grey summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled.

They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot. And form'd the rugged sylvan grot. The oak and birch, with mingled shade , At noontide there a twilight made.

Unless when short and sudden shone Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, With such a glimpse as prophet's eye Gains on thy depth. Futurity.

No murmur waked the solemn still.

Save tinkling of a fountain rill;

But when the wind chafed with the lake, A sullen sound would upward break.

With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock. Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway, Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern grey.

From such a den the wolf had sprung. In such the wild-cat leaves her young; Yet Douglas and his daughter fair Sought for a space their safety there.

Grey Supersitition's whisper dread Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread; For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their sylvan court. By moonlight tread their mystic maze. And blast the rash beholder's gaze.

XXVII.

Now eve, with western shadows long, Floated on Katrine bright and strong,

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When Roderick, with a chosen few,

Repass'd the heights of Benvenue.

Above the Goblin-cave they go.

Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo:

The prompt retainers speed before,

To launch the shallop from the shore.

For 'cross Loch Katrine lies his way

To view the passes of Achray,

And place his clansmen in array.

Tet lags the chief in musing mind.

Unwonted sight, his men behind.

A single page, to bear his sword,

Alone attended on his lord;

The rest their way through thickets break.

And soon await him by the lake.

It was a fair and gallant sight,

To view them from the neighbouring height.

By the low-levell'd sunbeams light!

For strength and stature, from the clan

Each warrior was a chosen man,

As even afar might well be seen.

By their proud step and martial mien.

Their feathers dance, their tartans float.

Their targets gleam, as by the boat

A wild and warlike group they stand,

That well became such mountain strand.

XXVIII.

Their Chief, with step reluctant, still Was lingering on the craggy hill,

Hard by where turn'd apart the road To Douglas's obscure abode.

It was but with that dawning morn,

That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn To drown his love in war's wild roar, Nor think of Ellen Douglas more;

But he who stems a stream with sand, And fetters flame with flaxen band,

Has yet a harder task to prove—

By firm resolve to conquer love!

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204

Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost,

Still hovering near his treasure lost;

For though his haughty heart deny A parting meeting to his eye,

Still fondly strains his anxious ear.

The accents of her voice to hear.

And inly did he curse the breeze That waked to sound the rustling trees.

But hark! what mingles in the strain?

It is the harp of Allan-bane,

That wakes its measure slow and high,

Attuned to sacred minstrelsy.

What melting voice attends the strings?

Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings.

XXIX.

Hymn to the Virgin.

Ave Maria I maiden mild!

Listen to a maiden's prayer!

Thou canst hear though from the wild,

Thou canst save amid despair.

Safe may we sleep beneath thy care,

Though banish'd, outcast, and reviled—

Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer;

Mother, hear a suppliant child!

Ave Maria t

Ave Maria! undefiled!

The flinty couch we now must share.

Shall seem with down of eider piled,

If thy protection hover there.

The murky cavern's heavy air

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled; Then, Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer;

Mother, list a suppliant child!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! stainless styled!

Fould demons of the earth and air.

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205

From this their wonted haunt exiled,

Shall flee before thy presence fair.

We bow us to our lot of care,

Beneath thy guidance reconciled;

Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer!

And for a father hear a child!

Ave Maria !

XXX.

Died on the harp the closing hymn -Unmoved in attitude and limb,

As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord Stood leaning on his heavy sword.

Until the page, with humble sign ,

Twice pointed to the sun's decline.

Then while his plaid he round him cast,

'It is the last time—'tis the last,'

He mutter'd thrice,—' the last time e'er That angel voice shall Roderick hear!'

It was a goading thought—his stride Hied hastier down the mountain-side;

Sullen he flung him in the boat,

And instant 'cross the lake it shot.

They landed in that silvery bay.

And eastward held their hasty way.

Till, with the latest beams of light.

The band arrived on Lanrick height,

Where muster'd, in the vale below,

Clan-Alpine's men in martial show.

XXXI.

A various scene the clansmen made,

Some sate, some stood, some slowly stray'd;

But most with mantles folded round,

Were couch'd to rest upon the ground,

Scarce to be known by curious eye.

From the deep heather where they lie,

So well was match'd the tartan screen With heath-bell dark and brackens green;

Unless where, here and there, a blade,

Or lance's point, a glimmer made,

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206

Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade. But when, advancing through the gloom, They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume,

Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, , Shook the steep mountain's steady side.

Thrice it arose, and lake and fell Three times return'd the martial yell;

It died upon Bochastle's plain.

And Silence claim'd her evening reign.

CANTO POUKTH.

The Prophecy.

' The rose is fairest -when 'tis budding new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears. O -wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears,

I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave.

Emblem of hope and love through future years!' Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave, What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad wave.

II.

Such fond conceit, half said, half sung.

Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. All while he stripp'd the wild-rose spray.

His axe and bow beside him lay.

For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood,

A wakeful sentinel he stood.

Hark! on the rock a footstep rung.

And instant to his arms he sprung.

'Stand, or thou diest!—What, Malise?—soon Art thou return'd from Braes of Doune.

By thy keen step and glance I know.

Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'—

(For while the Fiery Cross hied on,

On distant scout had Malise gone.)

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'Where sleeps the Chief?' the henchman said. ¹ Apart, in yonder misty glade;

To his lone couch I'll be your guide.'—

Then call'd a slumberer by his side,

And stirr'd him with his slacken'd bow_

'Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho!

We seek the Chieftain ; on the track,

Keep eagle watch till I come back,'

Together up the pass they sped:

* What of the foemen ?' Norman said.—

'Varying reports from near and far;

This certainthat a band of war

Has for two days been ready boune,

At prompt command, to march from Doune;

King James, the while, with princely powers,

Holds revelry in Stirling towers.

Soon will this dark and gathering cloud

Speak on our glens in thunder loud.

Inured to bide such bitter bout,

The warrior's plaid may bear it out;

But, Norman, how wilt thou provide

A shelter for thy bonny bride?'—

'What! know ye not that Roderick's care

To the lone isle hath caused repair

Each maid and matron of the clan

And every child and aged man

Unfit for arms; and given his charge,

Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge,

Upon these lakes shall float at large.

But all beside the islet moor.

That such dear pledge may rest secure?'—

IV.

' 'Tis well advised—the Chieftain's plan Bespeaks the father of his clan.

But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu Apart from all his followers true?'—

'It is, because last evening-tide Brian an augury hath tried,

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Of that dread kind which must not be Unless in dread extremity The Taghairm call'd; by which, afar, Our sires foresaw the events of war. Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew.'

MALISE.

'Ah! well the gallant brute I knew! The choicest of the prey we had,

When swept our merry-men Gallangad. His hide was snow, his horns were dark. His red eye glow'd like fiery spark; So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,

Sore did he cumber our retreat.

And kept our stoutest kernes in awe,

Even at the pass of Beal'maha.

But steep and flinty was the road, And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, And when we came to Dennan's Row, A child might scatheless stroke his brow.'—

NOKMAN.

'That bull was slain: his reeking hide They stretch'd the cataract beside.

Whose waters their wild tumult toss Adown the black and craggy boss Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.

Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink. Close where the thundering torrents sink _tRocking beneath their headlong sway, And drizzled by the ceaseless spray,

Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream, The wizard waits prophetic dream. Nor distant rests the Chief;—but hush! See, gliding slow through mist and bush,. The Hermit gains yon rock, and stands To gaze upon our slumbering bands.

Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost,

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That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host?

Or raven on the blasted oak,

That, watching while the deer is broke.

His morsel claims with sullen croak?'

MALISE.

¹ Peace! peace! to other than to me.

Thy words were evil augury;

But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid,

Not aught that, glean'd from heaven or hell. Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell.

The Chieftain joins him, see—and now,

Together they descend the brow.'

VI.

And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord The Hermit Monk held solemn word:—

'Roderick! it is a fearful strife,

For man endow'd with mortal life,

Whose shroud of sentient clay can still Feel feverish pang and fainting chill.

Whose eye can stare in stony trance.

Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance ,—

'Tis hard for such to view, unfurl'd ,

The curtain of the future world.

Yet, witness every quaking limb.

My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim.

My soul with harrowing anguish torn ,

This for my Chieftain have I borne! —

The shapes that sought my fearful couch ,

A human tongue may ne'er avouch;

No mortal man,—save he, who, bred Between the living and the dead,

Is gifted beyond nature's law.

Had e'er survived to say he saw.

At length the fatal answer came,

In characters of living flame!

Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll,

But borne and branded on my soul;—

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Which spills the iokemosi foeman's life, That pabty conquers in the stripe !'—

VII.

'Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care!

Good is thine augury, and fair.

Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood,

Burst first our broadswords tasted blood. A surer victim still I know,

Self-offer d to the auspicious blow:

A spy has sought my land this morn,— No eve shall witness his return!

My followers guard each pass's mouth, To east, to westward, and to south; Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, Has charge to lead his steps aside,

Till, in deep path or dingle brown,

He light on those shall bring him down. —But see , who comes his news to show! Malise! what tidings of the foe?'—

VIII.

'At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive Two Barons proud their banners wave.

I saw the Moray's silver star,

And mark'd the sable pale of Mar.'— 'By Alpine's soul, high tidings those!

I love to hear of worthy foes.

When move they on?'—'To-morrow's noon Will see them here for battle boune.'— 'Then shall it see a meeting stern!— But, for the place—say, couldst thou learn Nought of the friendly clans of Earn? Strengthen'd by them, we well might bide The battle on Benledi's side.

Thou couldst not?—Well! Clan-Alpine's men Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen;

Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight, All in our maids' and matrons' sight,

Each for his hearth and household fire, Father for child, and son for sire , —

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Lover for maid beloved!—But why-Is it the breeze affects mine eye ?

Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear! A messenger of doubt or fear?

No! sooner may the Saxon lance Unfix Benledi from his stance.

Than doubt or terror can pierce through The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu! Tis stubborn as his trusty targe.—

Each to his post! — all know their charge. The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, The broadswords gleam, the banners dance, Obedient to the Chieftain's glance.

—I turn me from the martial roar, And seek Coir-Uriskin once more.

IX.

Where is the Douglas?—he is gone; And Ellen sits on the grey stone Fast by the cave, and makes her moan; While vainly Allan's words of cheer Are pour'd on her unheeding ear.—

'He will return—Dear lady, trust!—

With joy return;—he will—he must.

Well was it time to seek, afar.

Some refuge from impending war,

When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm Are cow'd by the approaching storm.

I saw their boats, with many a light, Floating the live-long yesternight,

Shifting like flashes darted forth By the red streamers of the north;

I mark'd at morn how close they ride, Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side.

Like wild-ducks couching in the fen,

When stoops the hawk upon the glen.

Since this rude race dare not abide The peril on the mainland side,

Shall not thy noble father's care Some safe retreat for thee prepare?'—

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ELLEN.

'No, Allan, no! Pretext so kind My wakeful terrors could not blind.

When in such tender tone, yet grave, Douglas a parting blessing gave.

The tear that glisten'd in bis eye Drowa'd not his purpose fix'd on high. My soul, though feminine and weak, Can image his; e'en as the lake,

Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,

Reflects the invulnerable rock.

He hears report of battle rife,

He deems himself the cause of strife.

I saw him redden, when the theme Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream. Of Malcolm Graeme, in fetters bound. Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen aught?quot; Oh no! 'twas apprehensive thought For the kind youth,—for Roderick too — (Let me be just) that friend so true; In danger both, and in our cause!

Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. Why else that solemn warning given, ' If not on earth, we meet in heaven!' Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane,

It eve return him not again,

Am I to hie, and make me known?

Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne.

Buys his friend's safety with his own;— He goes to do—what I had done, Had Douglas' daughter been his son!'—

' Nay, lovely Ellen !—dearest, nay! If aught should his return delay,

He only named yon holy fane As fitting place to meet again.

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Be sure he's safe; and for the Graeme,—

Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!—

My vision'd sight may yet prove true,

Nor bode of ill to him or you.

When did my gifted dream beguile ?

Think of the stranger at the isle.

And think upon the harpings slow,

That presaged this approaching -woe!

Sooth was my prophecy of fear;

Believe it when it augurs cheer.

Would we had left this dismal spot!

Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot.

Of such a wondrous tale I know—

Dear lady , change that look of woo,

My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.'—

ELLEX.

'Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear,

But cannot stop the bursting tear.'

The Micstrel tried his simple art,

But distant far was Ellen's heart.

XII.

Ballad.

ALICE BRAND.

Merry it is in the good greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry. And the hunter's horn is ringing.

'0 Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold,

As outlaws wont to do.

'0 Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright.

And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue.

That on the night of our luckless flight,

Thy brother bold I slew.

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'Now must I teach to hew the beech, The hand that held the glaive,

For leaves to spread our lowly bed. And stakes to fence our cave.

¹ And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer. To keep the cold away.'— _/

'0 Richard! if my brother died,

'Twas but a fatal chance;

Tor darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

'If pall and vair no more I wear.

Nor thou the crimson sheen.

As warm, we'll say, is the russet grey, As gay the forest-green.

'And, Richard, if our lot be hard.

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand.'

XIII.

Ballad Continued.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who won'd within the hill,—

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, His voice was ghostly shrill.

'Why sounds yon stroke on beach and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen ?

Or who comes here to chase the deer,

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Beloved of our Elfin Queen?

Or who may dare on wold to wear The fairies fatal green ?

'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie.

For thou wert christen'd man;

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For mutter'd word or ban.

'Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart, The curse of the sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part, Nor yet find leave to die.'

XIV.

Ballad continued.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, Though the birds have still'd their singing;

The evening blaze doth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf.

Before Lord Richard stands,

And as he cross'd and bless'd himself,

'I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf,

'That is made with bloody hands.'

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,

That woman, void of fear,—

' And if there's blood upon his hand,

'Tis but the blood of deer.'—

'Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! It cleaves unto his hand.

The stain of thine own kindly blood.

The blood of Ethert Brand.'

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, And made the holy sign,—

' And if there's blood on Richard's hand, A spotless hand is mine.

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' And I conjure thee , Demon elf,

By Him whom Demons fear,

To show us whence thou art thyself.

And what thine errand here!'—

XV.

Ballad continued.

' Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land,

When fairy birds are singing,

When the court doth ride by their monarch's side. With bit and bridle ringing:

' And gaily shines the Fairy-land—-

Bnt all is glistening show.

Like the idle gleam that December's beam Can dart on ice and snow.

'And fading, like that varied gleam,

Is our inconstant shape,

Who now like knight and lady seem,

And now like dwarf and ape.

' It was between the night and day,

When the Fairy King has power,

That I sunk down in a sinful fray.

And, 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd away To the joyless Elfin bower.

' But wist I of a woman bold,

Who thrice my brow durst sign,

I might regain my mortal mold,

As fair a form as thine.'

She cross'd him once—she cross'd him twice—

That lady was so brave:

The fouler grew his goblin hue,

The darker grew the cave.

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand

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The fairest knight on Scottish mold, Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood.

When the mavis and merle are singing. But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey. quot;When all the bells were ringing.

XVI.

Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, A stranger climb'd the steepy glade: His martial step, his stately mien, His hunting suit of Lincoln green, His eagle glance , remembrance claims— Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-Jame Ellen beheld as in a dream,

Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a scream: '0 stranger! in such hour of fear,

What evil hap has brought thee here?'— 'An evil hap how can it be.

That bids me look again on thee? By promise bound, my former guide Met me betimes this morning tide. And marshall'd, over bank and bourne, The happy path of my return.'— 'The happy path!—what! said he nought Of war, of battle to be fought.

Of guarded pass?'—'No, by my faith! Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.'--'0 haste thee, Allan, to the kern, —Yonder his tartans I descern;

Learn thou his purpose, and conjure That he will guide the stranger sure!— What prompted thee, unhappy man ? The meanest serf in Roderick's clan Had not been bribed by love or fear, Unknown to him to guide thee here.'—

XVII.

' Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be ,

Since it is worthy care from thee;

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Yet life I hold bat idle breath,

When love or honour's weigh'd with death.

Then let me profit by my chance,

And speak my purpose bold at once.

I come to bear thee from a wild.

Where ne'er before such blossom smiled;

By this soft hand to lead thee far

From frantic scenes of feud and war.

Near Bochastle my horses wait;

They bear us soon to Stirling gate.

I'll place thee in a lovely bower,

I'll guard thee like a tender flower.'—

'0! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female art.

To say I do not read thy heart;

Too much, before, my selfish ear

Was idly soothed my praise to hear.

That fatal bait hath lured thee back.

In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track;

And how, 0 how, can I atoue

The wreck my vanity brought on!—

One way remains—I'll tell him all—

Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall!

Thou, whose light folly bears the blame,

Buy thine own pardon with thy shame!

But first—my father is a man

Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban;

The price of blood is on his head,

With me 'twere infamy to wed.—

Still wouldst thou speak?—then hear the truth!

Fitz-James, there is a noble youth,—

If yet he is!—exposed for me

And mine to dread extremity—

Thou hast the secret of my heart;

Forgive, be generous , and depart!'

XVIII.

Fitz-James knew every wily train A lady's fickle heart to gain;

But here he knew and felt them vain.

There shot no glance from Ellen's eye,

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To give her steadfast speech the lie;

Tn maiden confidence she stood,

Though mantled in her cheek the blood,

And told her love with such a sigh

Of deep and hopeless agony,

As death had seal'd her Malcolm's doom.

And she sat sorrowing on his tomb.

Hope vanish'd from Fitz-James's eye.

But not with hope fled sympathy.

He proffer'd to attend her side.

As brother would a sister guide.—

'0! little know'st thou Roderick's heart!

Safer for both we go apart.

0 haste thee, and from Allan learn,

If thou may'st trust yon wily kern.'

With hand upon his forehead laid.

The conflict of his mind to shade,

A parting step or two he made;

Then, as some thought had cross'd his brain.

He paused, and turn'd, and came again.

XIX.

'Hear, lady, yet, a parting word!— It chanced in fight that my poor sword Preserved the life of Scotland's lord.

This ring the grateful Monarch gave, And bade, when I had boon to crave, To bring it back, and boldly claim The recompense that I would name.

Ellen, I am no courtly lord,

But one who lives by lance and sword. Whose castle is his helm and shield, His lordship the embattled field.

What from a prince can I demand. Who neither reck of state nor land?

Ellen, thy hand—the ring is thine;

Each guard and usher knows the sign.

Seek thou the king without delay;

This signet shall secure thy way;

And claim thy suit, whate'er it be,

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Aa ransom of Ms pledge to me.quot;

He placed the golden circlet on, Paused—kiss'd her hand—and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast,

So hastily Fitz-Jamea shot past.

He join'd hia guide, and wending down The ridgea of the mountain brown,

Across the stream they took their way.

That joins Loch Katrine to Achray.

XX.

All in the Troaach'a glen was still,

Noontide was sleeping on the hill:

Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high — 'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'— Ho stammer'd forth' I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.' He look'd—he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed:—'Ah! gallant grey! For thee—for me, perchance—'twere well We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell.— Murdoch, move first—but silently;

Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!' Jealous and sullen on they fared ,

Each silent, each upon his guard.

XXL

Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge,

When lo! a wasted female form.

Blighted by wralh of sun and storm, In tatter'd weeds and wild array.

Stood on a cliff beside the way. And glancing round her restless eye,

Upon the wood, the rock, the sky,

Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy. Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling To crag and cliff from dusky wing;

Such spoils her desperate step had sought,

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Where scarce was footing for the goat. The tartan plaid she first descried, And shriek'd till all the rocks replied; As loud she langh'd when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew; And then her hands she wildly wrung, And then she wept, and then she sung — She sung!—the voice, in better time. Perchance to harp or lute might chime. And now, through strain'd and roughen'd, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill.

XXII.

Song.

'They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,

They say my brain is warp'd and wrung— I cannot sleep on Highland brae,

I cannot pray in Highland tongue. But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides,

So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day!

'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid.

They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn they said,

And my true love would meet me there. But woe betide the cruel guile.

That drown'd in blood the morning smile! And woe betide the fairy dream!

I only waked to sob and scream.

XXIII.

'Who is this maid? what means her lay? She hovers o'er the hollow way,

And flutters wide her mantle grey,

As the lone heron spreads his wing. By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.'— ' 'Tis Blanche of Devan ,' Murdoch said, •A crazed and captive Lowland maid,

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TVen on the morn she was a bride,

Wlien Roderick forray'd Devan-side.

The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chiefs vmoonquer'd blade, I marvel she is now at large.

But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge.— Hence, brain-sick fool!'—He raised his bow:— 'Now, if thou strikest her but one blow, I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitch'd a bar!'—

' Thanks, champion, thanks!' the Maniac cried, And press'd her to Fitz-James's side.

' See the grey pennons 1 prepare,

To seek my true-love through the air!

I will not lend that savage groom,

To break his fall, one downy plume! No!—deep amid disjointed stones.

The wolves shall batten on his bones, And then shall his detested plaid.

By bush and brier in mid-air staid.

Wave forth a banner fair and free,

Meet signal for their revelry.'—

XXIV.

'Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!'— '0! thou look'st kindly, and I will.—

Mine eye has dried and wasted been. But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung,

Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue.

'For 0 my sweet William was forester true.

He stole poor Blanche's heart away! His Coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland lay!

'.It was not that I meant to tell . . . But thou art wise and guessest well.¹—

Then, in a low and broken tone. And hurried note, the song went on.

Still on the Clansman, fearfully,

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She fix'd her apprehensive eye;

Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then

Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen.

XXV.

' The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are set,

Ever sing merrily, merrily;

The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily.

' It was a stag, a stag of ten,

Bearing its branches sturdily;

He came stately down the glen.

Ever sing hardily, hardily.

' It was there he met with a wounded doe,

She was bleeding deathfully;

She warn'd him of the toils below, 0, so faithfully, faithfully!

* He had an eye, and he could heed,

Ever sing warily, warily;

He had a foot, and he could speed— Hunters watch so narrowly.¹

XXVI.

Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd,

When Ellen's hints and fears were lost; But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, And Blanche's song conviction brought.— Not like a stag that spies the snare,

But lion of the hunt aware,

He waved at once his blade on high, ' Disclose thy treachery, or die!'

Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, But in his race his bow he drew.

The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest. And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast. — Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed. For ne'er had Alpine's son such need!

With heart of fire, and foot of wind,

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The fierce avenger is behind!

Fate judges of the rapid strife—

The forfeit death—the prize is Ufe! Thy kindred ambush lies before,

Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;

Them couldst thou reach!—it may not be— Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see, The fiery Saxon gains on thee!

—Resistless speeds the deadly thrust. As lightning strikes the pine to dust;

quot;With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain, Ere he can win his blade again.

Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye, Be grimly smiled to see him die;

Then slower wended back his way.

Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.

XXVII.

She sate beneath the birchen-tree,

Ber elbow resting on her knee;

She had withdrawn the fatal shaft.

And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd;

Ber wreath of broom and feathers grey.

Daggled with blood, beside her lay.

The Knight to stanch the life-stream tried,—

'Stranger, it is in vain!' she cried;

'This hour of death has given me more

Of reason's power than years before;

For, as these ebbing veins decay,

My fienzied visions fade away.

A helpless injured wretch I die.

And something tells me in thine eye.

That thou wert mine avenger born.—

Seest thou this tress ?—O! still I've worn

This little tress of yellow hair,

Through danger, frenzy, and despair!

It once was bright and clear as thine,

But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine.

I will not tell thee when 'twas shred,

Nor from what guiltless victim's head—

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My brain would turn!—but it shall wave Like plumage on tlry helmet brave,

Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, And thou wilt bring it me again—

I waver still!—O God! more bright Let reason beam her parting light! — O! by thy knighthood's honouv'd sign, And for thy life preserved by mine,

When thou shalt see a darksome man, Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan , With tartans broad and shadowy plume , And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong. And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong! They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . Avoid the path ... O God!... farewell.'

XXVIII.

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James;

Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims. And now with mingled grief and ire,

He saw the murder'd maid expire.

'God, in my need, be my relief.

As I wreak this on yonder Chief!¹A lock from Blanche's tresses fair He blended with her bridegroom's hair; The mingled braid in blood he dyed , And placed it on bis bonnet-side:

'By Him whose word is truth! I swear. No other favour will I wear.

Till this sad token I imbrue In the best blood of Roderick Dhu! —But hark! what means yon faint halloo? The chase is up,—but they shall know, The stag at bay's dangerous foe.'

Barr'd from the known but guarded way, Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must stray , And oft must change his desperate track, By stream and precipice turn'd back. Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length,

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From lack of food and loss of strength, He coucli'd him in a thicket hoar, And thought his toils and perils o'er:— ¹ Of all my rash adventures past,

This frantic feat must prove the last! Who e'er so mad but might have guess'd, That all this Highland hornet's nest Would muster up in swarms so soon As e'er they heard of bands at Doune?— Like bloodhounds now they search me out,— Hark, to the whistle and the shout!— If farther through the wilds I go,

I only fall upon the foe:

I'll couch me here till evening grey.

Then darkling try my dangerous way.'

XXIX.

The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapt in deeper brown. The owl awakens from her dell,

The fox is heard upon the fell;

Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer's steps aright.

Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe.

With cautious step, and ear awake. He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice, there, Temper'd the midnight mountain air, But every breeze, that swept the wold, Benumb'd his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone,

Famish'd and chill'd, through ways unknown, Tangled and steep, he journey'd on;

Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, A watch-fire close before him bum'd.

XXX.

Beside its embers red and clear,

Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer;

And up he sprung with sword in hand,—

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••Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!'— 'A stranger.'—'What dost thou require?'— ' Rest and a guide, and food and fire. My life's beset, my path is lost.

The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost.'— 'Art thou a friend to Roderick?'—'No.'— 'Thou darest not call thyself a foe?'— 'I dare! to him and all the band He brings to aid his murderous hand.'— ' Bold words 1 —but, though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim.

Though space and law the stag we lend, Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when, The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain?

Thus treacherous scouts,—yet sure they lie, Who say thou earnest a secret spy!'—

'They do, by heaven!—Come Roderick Dhu, And of his clan the boldest two,

And let me but till morning rest,

I write the falsehood on their crest.'— 'If by the blaze I mark aright,

Thou bear'st the belt and spur of Knight.'— 'Then by these tokens mayst thou know Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.'— ' Enough, enough ; sit down and share A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.

XXXI.

He gave him of his Highland cheer, The harden'd flesh of mountain deer, Dry fuel on the fire he laid,

And bade the Saxon share his plaid. He tended him like welcome guest.

Then thus his farther speech address'd. ' Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu A clansman born, a kinsman true;

Each word against his honour spoke. Demands of me avenging stroke; Tet more,—upon thy fate, 'tis said,

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A mighty augury is laid.

It rests -with me to ■wind my horn,—

Thou art with numbers overborne;

It rests with me, here, brand to brand,.

Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand:

But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause,

Will I depart from honour's laws;

To assail a wearied man were shame.

And stranger is a holy name;

Guidance and rest, and food and fire.

In vain he never must require.

Then rest thee here till dawn of day;

Myself will guide thee on the way,

O'er stock and stone, through watch and ward...

Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard,

As far as Coilantogle's ford;

From thence thy warrant is thy sword.¹—

'I take thy courtesy, by Heaven,

As freely as 'tis nobly given!'—

' Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry

Sings us the lake's wild lullaby.'

With that he shook the gather'd heath,

And spread his plaid upon the wreath;

And the brave foemen, side by side,

Lay peaceful down, like brothers tried,

And slept until the dawning beam

Purpled the mountain and the stream.

canto rifth.

The Combat.

Faik as the earliest beam of eastern light.

When first, by the bewilder'd pilgrim spied It smiles upon the dreary brow of night.

And silvers o'er the torrents foaming tide. And lights the fearful path on mountainside;— Fair as that beam, although the fairest far.

(

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Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,

Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's bright star, Through all the wreckfal storms that cloud the brow of War.

II.

That early beam, so fair and sheen,

Was twinkling through the hazel screen,

When, rousing at its glimmer red,

The warriors left their lowly bed,

Look'd out upon the dappled sky,

Mutter'd their soldier matins by,

And then awaked their fire, to steal,

As short and rude, their soldier meal.

That o'er, the Gael around him threw His graceful plaid of varied hue.

And, true to promise, led the way,

By thicket green and mountain grey.

A wildering path!—they winded now Along the precipice's brow.

Commanding the rich scenes beneath,

The windings of the Forth and Teith,

And all the vales beueath that lie,

Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky;

Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance Gain'd not the length of horseman's lance.

'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain Assistance from the hand to gain;

So tangled oft, that, bursting through.

Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,—

That diamond dew, so pure and clear,

It rivals all but Beauty's tear!

III.

At length they came where, stern and steep,

The hill sinks down upon the deep.

Here Vennacher in silver flows.

There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose;

Ever the hollow path twined on.

Beneath steep bank and threatening stone;

A hundred men might hold the post With hardihood against a host.

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The ragged mountain's scanty cloak

Was dwarfish, shrubs of birch and oak,

With shingles bare, and cliffs between,

And patches bright of bracken green,

And heather black, that waved so high,

It held the copse in rivalry.

But where the lake slept deep and still.

Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill;

And oft both path and hill were torn,

Where wintry torrents down had borne.

And heap'd upon the cumber'd land

Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand.

So toilsome was the road to trace,

The guide, abating of his pace.

Led slowly through the pass's jaws.

And ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange cause

He sought these wilds? traversed by few ,

Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.

IV.

' Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried,

Hangs in my belt, and by my side; Yet, sooth to tell,' the Saxon said, 'I dreamt not now to claim its aid.

When here, but three days since, I came Bewilder'd in pursuit of game.

All seem'd as peaceful and as still.

As the mist slumbering on yon hill; Thy dangerous Chief was then afar.

Nor soon expected back from war.

Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, Though deep, perchance, the villain lied.'— 'Yet why a second venture try?'— 'A warrior thou, and ask me why!—

Moves our free course by such fix'd cause, As gives the poor mechanic laws:

Enough, I sought to drive away The lazy hours of peaceful day;

Slight cause will then suffice to guide A Knight's free footsteps far and wide,—

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A falcon flown, a greyhound stray'd, The merry glance of mountain maid:

Or, if a path be dangerous known, The danger's self is lure alone.'—

' Thy secret keep, I urge thee not; — Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war, Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar?' —'No, by my word;—of bands prepared To guard King James's sports I heard; Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear This muster of the moutaineer.

Their pennons will abroad be flung,

Which else in Doune had peaceful hung.'— ' Free be they flung! —for we were loth Their silken folds should feast the moth. Free be they flung!—as free shall wave Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, Bewilder'd in the mountain game.

Whence the bold boast by which you show Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe?'— ' Warrior, but yester-morn , I knew Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan,

Who, in the Regent's court and sight. With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight: Yet this alone might from his part Sever each true and loyal heart.'

VI.

Wrothful at such arraignment foul,

Dark lower'd the clansman's sable scowl. A space he paused, then sternly said, 'And heard'st thou why he drew hia blade? Heard'st thou that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood

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On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood? He rights such wrong where it is given, If it were in the court of Heaven.'—

'Still was it outrage;—yet, 'tis true, Not then claim'd sovereignty his due; While Albany, with feeble hand,

Held borrow'd truncheon of command, The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower. Was stranger to respect and power. But then, thy Chieftain's robber life!— Winning mean prey by causeless strife. Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain His herds and harvest rear'd in vain.— Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne.—

VII.

The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answer'd with disdainful smile,— • Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I mark'd thee send delighted eye,

Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay.

Deep waving fields and pastures green , With gentle slopes and groves between: — These fertile plains, that soften'd vale. Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand , And from our fathers reft the land.

Where dwell we now! See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.

Ask we this savage hill we tread, For fatten'd steer or household bread; Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, And well the mountain might reply ,—-'To you, as to your sires of yore,

Belong the target and claymore!

I give you shelter in my breast.

Your own good blades must win the rest. Pent in this fortress of the North,

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Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we way,

And from the robber rend the prey? Ay, by my soul!—While on yon plain The Saxon rears one shook of grain;

While, of ten thousand herds, there strays But one along yon river's maze ,— The Gael, of plain and river heir,

Shall, with strong hand , redeem his share. Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold. That plundei'ing Lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution true?

Seek other cause quot;gainst Roderick Dhu.'— VIII.

Answer'd Fitz-James,—'And, if I sought , Think'st thou no other could be brought? What deem ye of my path waylaid? My life given o'er to ambuscade?'—

' As of a meed to rashness due:

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— I seek my hound, or falcon stray'd,

I seek, good faith , a Highland maid,— Free hadst thou been to come and go; But secret path marks secret foe.

Nor yet, for this, even as a spy,

Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to die, Save to fulfil an augury.'—

'Well, let it pass; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow.

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride : Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen In peace; but when I come agen,

I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn, swain, in lady's bower,

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour. As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band!'—

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IX.

' Have, then, thy wish!'—he whistled shrill,

And he was answer'd from the hill;

Wild as the scream of the curlew,

From crag to crag the signal flew.

Instant, through copse and heath, arose

Bonnets and spears ant! bended bows;

On right, on left, above, below,

Sprung up at once the lurking foe;

From shingles grey their lances start,

The bracken bush sends forth the dart,

The rushes and the willow-wand

Are bristling into axe and brand,

And every tuft of broom gives life

To plaided warrior arm'd for strife.

That whistle garrison'd the glen

At once with full five hundred men.

As if the yawning hill to heaven

A subterranean host had given.

Watching their leader's beck and will,

All silent there they stood, and still.

Like the loose crags, whose threatening mass

Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,

As if an infant's touch could urge

Their headlong passage down the verge.

With step and weapon forward flung,

Upon the mountain-side they hung.

The Mountaineer cast glance of pride

Along Benledi's living side,

Then fix'd his eye and sable brow

Full on Fitz-James—'How say'st thou now?

These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true;

And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!'

Fitz-James was brave;—Though to his heart. The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Return'd the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore.

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And firmly placed his foot before:—

'Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as 1.'

Sir Roderick mark'd—and in his eyes Bespect was mingled with surprise,

And the stem joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.

Short space he stood—then waved his hand; Down sunk the disappearing band;

Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood;

Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low;

It seem'd as if their mother Earth Had swallow'd up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had toss'd in air. Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,— The next but swept a lone hill-side.

Where heath and fern were waving wide: The sun's last glance was glinted back,

From spear and glaive, from targe and jack, The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green, and cold grey stone.

XI.

Fitz-James look'd round—yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received;

Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream.

Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed ,

And to his look the Chief replied,

'Fear nought—nay, that I need not say— But—doubt not aught from mine array.

Thou art my guest;—I pledged my word As far as Coilantogle ford:

Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand.

Though on our strife lay every vale Bent by the Saxon from the Gael.

So move we on;—I only meant

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To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.'

They moved:—I said Fitz-James was brave , As ever knight that belted glaive;

Yet dare not say, that now his blood Kept on its wont and temper'd flood, As, following Roderick's stride, he drew That seeming lonesome pathway through , Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife With lances, that, to take his life.

Waited but signal from a guide ,

So late dishonour'd and defied.

Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanish'd guardians of the ground, And still, from copse and heather deep,

Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep.

And in the plover's shrilly strain,

The signal whistle heard again.

Nor breathed he free till far behind The pass was left; for then they wind Along a wide and level green.

Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, Nor rush nor bush of broom was near, To hide a bonnet or a spear.

XII.

The Chief in silence strode before ,

And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore,

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes.

From Vennachar in silver breaks ,

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines

On Bochastle the mouldering lines,

Where Rome, the Empress of the world ,

Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.

And here his course the Chieftain staid,

Threw down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lotvland warrior said:—

' Bold Saxon ! to his promise just,

Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.

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This murderous Chief, this ruthless man ,

This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward.

Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.

Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.

See here, all vantageless I stand,

Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand:

For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword.'

XIIL

The Saxon paused:—'I ne'er delay'd,

When foeman bade me draw my blade;

Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death:

Yet sure thy fair and generous faith And my deep debt for life preserved,

A better meed have well deserved:

Can nought but blood our feud atone?

Are there no means?'—'No, Stranger, none? And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—

The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;

For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead;

'Who spills the foremost foeman's life.

His party conquers in the strife.quot;—

' Then, by my wordthe Saxon said,

' The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,—

There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.

Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,

Then yield to Fate, and not to me.

To James, at Stirling, let us go.

When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favour free,

I plight mine honour, oath, and word.

That, to thy native strengths restored,

With each advantage shalt thou stand,

T hat aids thee now to guard thy land.'

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XIV.

Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's eye— 'Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew.

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!

Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:— My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose beat boast is but to wear A braid of hi» fair lady's hair.'—

'I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, begone!— Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief, can courtesy be shown;

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern.

Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt— We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'—

Then each at once his falchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain As what they ne'er might see again;

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed,

XV.

Ill fared it then with Roderik Dhu,

That on the field his targe he threw,

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dash'd aside;

For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,

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Fitz-Jamea's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintain'd unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood. And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. And shower'd his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,

Against the winter shower is proof.

The foe, invulnerable still,

Foil'd Ms wild rage by steady skill;

Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand. And backward borne upon the lea.

Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

XVI.

' Now, yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!' ' Thy threats , thy mercy, I defy!

Let recreant yield, who fears to die.'

—Like adder darting from his coil,

Like wolf that dashes through the toil,

Like mountain-cat who guards her young,

Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; Received, but reck'd not of a wound. And lock'd his arms his foeman round.— Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel. Through bars of brass and triple steel!—

They tug, they strain! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd, His kree was planted in his breast; His clotted looks he backward threw,

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Across his brow his hand he drew,

From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!— —But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late tho advantage came. To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye Down catne the blow ! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close. But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

XVII.

He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, Kedeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife; Next on his foe his look he cast Whose every gasp appear'd his last; In Roderick's gore he dipt the braid,— ' Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid Yet with thy foe must die, or live. The praise that Faith and Valour give.' With that he blew a bugle-note,

Undid the collar from his throat, Unbonneted, and by the wave Sate down his brow and hands to lave. Then faint afar are heard the feet Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet, The sounds increase, and now are seen Four mounted squires in Lincoln green; Two who bear lance, and two who lead, By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed;

Each onward held his headlong course, And by Fitz-Javnes rein'd up his horse,— With wonder view'd the bloody spot— - -'Exclaim not, gallants! question not.— You, Herbert and Luffness, alight, And bind the wounds of yonder knight;

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Let the grey palfrey bear his weight, We destined for a fairer freight,

And bring him on to Stirling straight; I will before at better speed,

To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. The sun rides high;—I must be boune, To see the archer-game at noon; But lightly Bayard clears the lea.— De Vaux and Hemes, follow me.

XVIII.

'Stand, Bayard' stand!'—the steed obey'd, With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye and quivering ear As if he loved his lord to hear.

No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid. No grasp upon the saddle laid. But wreath'd his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain,

Turn'd on the horse his armed heel, And stirr'd his courage with the steel. Bounded the fiery steed in air.

The rider sate erect and fair.

Then like a bolt from steel cross-bow Forth launch'd, along the plain they go. They dash'd that rapid torrent through. And up Carhonie's hill they flew;

Still at the gallop prick'd the Knight, His merry-men follow'd as they might, Along thy banks , swift Teith! they ride, And in the race they mock thy tide;

Torry and Lendrick now are past. And Deanstown lies behind them cast;

They rise, the banner'd towers of Doune, They sink in distant. woodland soon; Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire. They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre; They mark just glance and disappear The lofty brow of ancient Kier;

They bathe their courser's sweltering sides, Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides,

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And on the opposing shore take ground,

With plash, with scramble, and with bound.

Right hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig-Forth! And soon the bulwark of the North,

Grey Stirling, with her towers and town,

Upon their fleet career look'd down.

XIX.

As up the flinty path they strain'd

Sudden his steed the leader rein'd;

A signal to his squire he flung,

Who instant to his stirrup sprung: —

'Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman grey

Who town-ward holds the rocky way,

Of stature tall and poor array?

Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride,

With which he scales the mountain-side?

Know'st thou from whence he comes, or whom?'

'No, by my word;—a burly groom

He seems, who in the field or chase

A baron's train would nobly grace.' —

'Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply.

And jealousy, no sharper eye?

Afar, ere to the hill he drew.

That stately form and step I knew;

Like form in Scotland is not seen,

Treads not such step on Scottish green.

'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle!

The uncle of the banish'd Earl.

Away , away, to court, to show

The near approach of dreaded foe:

The King must stand upon his guard;

Douglas and he must meet prepared.'

Then right hand wheel'd their steeds, and straight

They won the castle's postern gate.

XX.

The Douglas, who had bent his way.

From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey grey,

Now, as he climb'd the rocky shelf.

Held sad communion with himself:—

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'Yes! all is true my fears could frame;

A prisoner lies the noble Grseme,

And fiery Roderick soon will feel

The vengeance of the royal steel.

I, only I, can ward their fate,—

God grant the ransom come not late!

The Abbess hath her promise given,

My child shall be the bride of Heaven;—

—Be pardon'd one repining tear!

For He, who gave her, knows how dear,

How excellent! but that is by.

And now my business is — to die.

—Ye towers! within whose circuit dread

A Douglas by his sovereign bled;

And thou, O sad and fatal mound!

That oft hast heard the death-axe sound.

As on the noblest of the land

Fell the stern headman's bloody hand—

The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb

Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom!

—But hark! what blithe and jolly peal

Makes the Franciscan steeple reel?

And see! upon the crowded street,

In motley groups what masquers meet!

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum,

And merry morrice-dancers come.

I guess, by all this quaint array,

The burghers hold their sports to-day.

James will be there; he loves such show,

quot;Where the good yeoman bends his bow,

And the tough wrestler foils his foe.

As well as where, in proud career,

The high-born tilter shivers spear.

I'll follow to the Castle-park,

And play my prize;—King James shall mark,

If age has tamed these sinews stark.

Whose force so oft, in happier days.

His boyish wonder loved to praise.'

XXI.

The Castle gates were open flung.

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The quivering drawbridge rock'd and rung, And echo'd loud the flinty street Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, As slowly down the steep descent Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, While all along the crowded way Was jubilee and loud huzza.

And ever James was bending low.

To his white jennet's saddle-bow,

Doffing his cap to city dame,

Who smiled and blush'd for pride and sharae. And well the simperer might be vain,— He chose the fairest of the train.

Gravely he greets each city sire.

Commends each pageant's quaint attire, Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, And smiles and nods upon the crowd. Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 'Long live the Commons' King, King James!' Behind the King throng'd peer and knight, And noble dame and damsel bright,

Whose fiery steeds ill brook'd the stay Of the steep street and crowded way. — But in the train you might discern Dark lowering brow and visage stern;

There nobles mourn'd their pride restrain'd. And the mean burgher's joys disdain'd; And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, Were each from home a banish'd man, There thought upon their own grey tower, Their waving woods, their feudal power. And deem'd themselves a shameful part Of pageant which they cursed in heart.

XXII.

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out Their chequer'd bands the joyous rout.

There morricers, with bell at heel. And blade in hand, their mazes wheel; But chief, beside the butts, there stand

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Bold Robin Hood and all his band,—

Friar Tuck -witli quarterstaff and cowl, Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl,

Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone.

Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John;

Their bugles challenge all that will. In archery to prove their skill.

The Douglas bent a bow of might,— His first shaft centered in the white, And when in turn he shot again. His second split the first in twain.

From the King's hand must Douglas take A silver dart, the archer's stake.

Fondly he watch'd, with watery eye,

Some answering glance of sympathy,— No kind emotion made reply!

Indifferent as to archer wight. The monarch gave the arrow bright.

XXXIII.

Now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand. The manly wrestlers take their stand. Two o'er the rest superior rose,

And proud demanded mightier foes, Nor call'd in vain; for Douglas came. —For life is Hugh of Larbert lame;

Scarce better John of Alloa's fare,

Whom senseless home his comrades bear. Prize of the wrestling match, the King To Douglas gave a golden ring,

,While coldly glanced his eye of blue, As frozen drop of wintry dew.

Douglas would speak, but in his breast His struggling soul his words suppress'd; Indignant then he turn'd him where Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, To hurl the massive bar in air.

When each his utmost strength had shown gt; The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone From its deep bed, then heaved it high,

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And sent the fragment through the sky, A rood beyond the farthest mark;— And still in Stirling's royal park, The grey-hair'd sires, who know the past» To strangers point the Douglas-east. And moralize on the decay Of Scottish strength in modern day.

XXIV.

The vale with loud applauses rang. The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. The King, with look unmoved, bestow'd A purse well-fill'd with pieces broad. Indignant smiled the Douglas proud. And threw the gold among the crowd, Who now, with anxious wonder, scan. And sharper glance, the dark grey man; Till whispers rose among the throng.

That heart so free , and hand so strong, Must to the Douglas blood belong;

The old men mark'd, and shook the head „ To see his hair with silver spread. And wink'd aside, and told each son, Of feats upon the English done, Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand Was exiled from his native land.

The women praised his stately form, Though wreck'd by many a winter's storm;. The youth with awe and wonder saw His strength surpassing Nature's law.

Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd. Till murmur rose to clamours loud.

But not a glance from that proud ring Of peers who circled round the King,

With Douglas held communion kind. Of call'd the banish'd man to mind; No, not from those who, at the chase.

Once held his side the honour'd place. Begirt his board, and, in the field,

Found safety underneath his shield;

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For he, whom royal eyes disown,

When was his form to courtiers known!

XXV.

The Monarch saw the gambols flag, And bade let loose a gallant stag,

Whose pride, the holiday to crown, Two favourite greyhounds should pull down, That venison free, and Bourdeaux wine, Might serve the archery to dine. But Lufra,—whom from Douglas' side Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide. The fleetest hound in all the North,— Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth.

She left the royal hounds mid-way. And dashing on the antler'd prey.

Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank. And deep the flowing life-blood drank. The King's stout huntsman saw the sport By strange intruder broken short,

Came up, and with his leash unbound, In anger struck the noble hound. —The Douglas had endured, that mora. The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, And last, and worst to spirit proud. Had borne the pity of the crowd; But Lufra had been fondly bred,

To share his board, to watch his bed, And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck In maiden glee with garlands deck;

They were such playmates, that with name Of Lufra, Ellen's image came.

His stifled wrath is brimming high, In darken'd brow and flashing eye; As waves before the bark divide,

The crowd gave way before his stride; Needs but a buffet and no more, The groom lies senseless in his gore.

Such blow no other hand could deal. Though gauntloted in glove of steel.

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XXVI.

Then clamour'd loud the royal train, And brandish'd swords and staves amain. But stern the Baron's warning—'Back! Back, on your lives, ye menial pack! Beware the Douglas.—Yes! behold,

King James 1 the Douglas, doom'd of old, And vainly sought for near and far, A victim to atone the war,

A willing victim, now attends,

Nor craves thy grace but for his friends.'— 'Thus is my clemency repaid? Presumptuous Lord!' the monarch said; ' Of thy mis-proud ambitious clan,

Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, The only men, in whom a foe My woman-mercy would not know: But shall a monarch's presence brook Injurious blow, and haughty look?—

What ho! the Captain of our Guard!

Give the offender fitting ward.—

Break off the sports!'—for tumult rose, And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows,— ' Break off the sports !' he said , and frown'd, 'And bid our horsemen clear the ground.'

XXVII.

Then uproar wild and misarray Marr'd the fair form of festal day. The horsemen prick'd among the crowd, Kepell'd by threats and insult loud; To earth are borne the old and weak, The timorous fly, the women shriek;

With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar, The hardier urge tumultuous war.

At once round Douglas darkly sweep The royal spears in circle deep.

And slowly scale the pathway steep;

While on the rear in thunder pour The rabble with disorder'd roar.

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With grief the noble Douglas saw The Commons rise against the law,

And to the leading soldier said,—

'Sir John of Hyndford! 'twas ray blade That knighthood on thy shoulder laid; For that good deed, permit me then A word with these misguided men.—

XXVIII.

' Hear, gentle friends! ere yet for me,

Ye break the bands of fealty.

My life, my honour, and my cause,

1 tender free to Scotland's laws;

Are these so weak as must require

The aid of your misguided ire?

Or, if I suffer causeless wrong.

Is then my selfish rage so strong,

My sense of public weal so low,

That, for mean vengeance on a foe.

Those chords of love I should unbind.

Which knit my country and my kind?

Oh no! Believe, in yonder tower

It will not soothe my captive hour.

To know those spears our foes should dread.

For me in kindred gore are red;

To know, in fruitless brawl begun,

For me, that mother wails her son.

For me, that widow's mate expires.

For me, that orphans weep their sires,

That patriots mourn insulted laws,

And curse the Douglas for the cause.

0 let your patience ward such ill.

And keep your right to love me still! '

XXIX.

The crowd's wild fury sunk again In tears, as tempests melt in rain.

With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd For blessings on his generous head,

Who for his country felt alone ,

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And prized her blood beyond his own. Old men, upon the verge of life,

Bless'd him who staid the civil strife; And mothers held their babes on high, The self-devoted Chief to spy.

Triumphant over wrongs and ire.

To whom the prattlers owed a sire:

Even the rough soldier's heart was moved; As if behind some bier beloved,

With trailing arms and drooping head, The Douglas up the hill ho led,

And at the Castle's battled verge,

With sighs resign'd his hononr'd charge.

XXX.

The offended Monarch rode apart.

With bitter thought and swelling heart, And would not now vouchsafe again Through Stirling streets to lead his train. '0 Lennox, who would wish to rule This changeling crowd, this common fool? Hear'st thouhe said, ' the loud acclaim, With which they shout the Douglas name? With like acclaim, the vulgar throat Strain'd for King James their morning note; With like acclaim they hail'd the day When first I broke the Douglas sway; And like acclaim would Douglas greet.

If he could hurl me from my seat.

Who o'er the herd would wish to reign , Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain!

Vain as the leaf upon the stream,

And fickle as a changeful dream,

Fantastic as a woman's mood,

And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood.

Thou many-headed monster-thing, 0 who would wish to bo thy king!

XXXI.

'But soft! what messenger of speed Spurs hitherward his panting steed?

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I guess his cognizance afar—

What from our cousin, John of Mar?'—

' He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound

quot;Within the safe and guarded ground:

For some foul purpose yet unknown,—

Most sure for evil to the throne,—

The outlaw'd Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,

Has summon'd his rebellious crew;

'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid

These loose banditti stand array'd.

The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune,

To break their muster march'd, and soon

Your grace will hear of battle fought;

But earnestly the Earl besought.

Till for such danger he provide.

With scanty train you will not ride.'—

XXXII.

'Thou warn'st me I have done amiss,— I should have earlier look'd to this:

I lost it in this bustling day.

—Retrace with speed thy former way;

Spare not for spoiling of thy steed,

The best of mine shall be thy meed.

Say to our faithful Lord of Mar,

We do forbid the intended war:

Roderick, this morn, in single fight. Was made our prisoner by a knight: And Douglas hath himself and cause Submitted to our kingdom's laws.

The tidings of their leaders lost Will soon dissolve the mountain host, Nor would we that the vulgar feel.

For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel.

Bear Mar our message, Braco: fly!'— He turn'd his steed,—'My liege, I hie,— Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn,

I fear the broadswords will be drawn.' The turf the flying courser spurn'd.

And to his towers the King return'd.

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■252

XXXIII.

Ill with King James's mood that day, Suited gay feast and minstrel lay;

Soon were dismiss'd the courtly throng, And soon cut short the festal song. Nor less upon the sadden'd town The evening sunk in sorrow down. The burghers spoke of civil jar, Of rumour'd feuds and mountain war, Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, All up in arms: —the Douglas too ,

They mourn'd him pent within the hold, 'Where stout Earl William was of old'— And there his word the speaker staid, And finger on his lip he laid,

Or pointed to his dagger blade.

But jaded horsemen, from the west, At evening to the castle press'd; And busy talkers said they bore Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore; At noon the deadly fray begun; And lasted till the set of sun.

Thus giddy rumour shook the town,

Till closed the Night her pennons brown.

canto sixth.

The Guard-Room.

The sun, awakening, through the smoky air

Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,

Bousing each caitiff to his task of care,

Of sinful man the sad inheritance;

Summoning revellers from the lagging dance.

Scaring the prowling robber to his den;

Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance.

And warning student pale to leave his pen, And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

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quot;What various scenes, and, O! what scenes of woe, Are witness'd by that red and struggling beam ! The fever'd patient, from his pallet low,

Through crowded hospital beholds its stream;

The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam ,

The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream;

The wakeful mother. by the glimmering pale,

Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

11.

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang

With soldier-step and weapon-clang,

While drums, with rolling note, foretell

Relief to weary sentinel.

Through narrow loop and casement barr'd,

The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,

And, struggling with the smoky air,

Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare.

In comfortless alliance shone

The lights through arch of blacken'd stone,

And show'd wild shapes in garb of war.

Faces deform'd with beard and scar,

All haggard from the midnight watch,

And fever'd with the stern debauch;

For the oak table's massive board,

Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,

And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown,

Show'd in what sport the night had flown.

Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;

Some labour'd still their thirst to quench;

Some, chill'd with watching, spread their hands

O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,

While round them , or beside them flung,

At every step their harness rung.

nr.

These drew not for their fields the sword,

Like tenants of a feudal lord.

Nor own'd the patriarchal claim Of Chieftain in their leader's name.

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254

Adventures they, from far who roved,

To live by battle which they loved.

There the Italian's clouded face,

The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;

The mountain-loving Switzer there

More freely breathed in mountain-air;

The Fleming there despised the soil.

That paid so ill the labourer's toil;

Their rolls show'd French and German name,

And merry England's exiles came,

To share, with ill conceal'd disdain,

Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.

All brave in arms, well train'd to wield

The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;

In camps licentious, wild, and bold;

In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd;

And now, by holytide and feast,

From rules of discipline released.

IV.

They held debate of bloody fray,

Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.

Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their words.

Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear

Of wounded comrades groaning near.

Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored,

Bore token of the mountain sword,

Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard,

Their prayers and feverish wails were heard;

Sad burden, to the rufiian joke,

And savage oath by fury spoke! —

At length up-started John of Brent,

A yeoman from the banks of Trent;

A stranger to respect or fear.

In peace a chaser of the deer,

In host a hardy mutineer.

But still the boldest of the crew,

When deed of danger was to do.

He grieved, that day, their games cut short,

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And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport,

And shouted loud, ' Renew the bowl!

And, while a merry catch I troll,

Let each the buxom chorus bear,

Like brethren of the brand and spear.'

Soldier s Song.

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That there's wrath and despair in the jolly blackjack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack; Yet whoop, Bamaby! off with thy liquor,

Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip

The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip,

Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly,

And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;

Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,

Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar thus preaches—and why should he not? For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot; And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, quot;Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church. Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,

Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar!

VI.

The warder's challenge, heard without.

Staid in mid-roar the merry shout.

A soldier to the portal went,—

' Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;

And,—beat for jubilee the drum!

A maid and minstrel with him come.'

Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd.

Was entering now the Court of Guard,

A harper with him, and in plaii All muffled close, a mountain maid,

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Who backward, shrunk to 'scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 'What ntws?' they roar'd:—'I only know, From noon till eve we fought with foe, As wild and as untameable As the rude mountains where they dwell; On both sides store of blood is lost, Nor much success can either boast.'— 'But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil As theirs must needs reward thy toil. Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, The leader of a juggler band.'—

VII.

'No, comrade;—no such fortune mine.

After the fight these sought our line,

That aged harper and the girl,

And, having audience of the Earl,

Mar bade I should purvey them steed. And bring them hitherward with speed. Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, For none shall do them shame or harm.'— 'Hear ye his boast!' cried John of Brent, Ever to strife and jangling bent;

'Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, And yet the jealous niggard grudge To pay the forester his fee?

I'll have my share, howe'er it be,

Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.'—

Bertram his forward step withstood: And, burning in his vengeful mood, Old Allan, though unfit for strife.

Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;

But Ellen boldly stepp'd between. And dropp'd at once the tartan screen; — So, from his morning cloud, appears The sun of May, through summer tears. The savage soldiery, amazed,

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Ab on descended angel gazed;

Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed,

Stood half admiring, half ashamed.

VIII.

Boldly she spoke,—'Soldiers, attend! My father was the soldier's friend; Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led And with him in the battle bled. Not from the valiant, or the strong, Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.'— Answer'd De Brent, most forward still In every feat or good or ill,—

'I shame me of the part I play'd: And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid An outlaw I by forest laws,

And merry Needwood knows the cause. Poor Rose,- if Rose be living now,'— He wiped his iron eye and brow,— 'Must bear such age, I think, as thou. Hear ye, my mates;—I go to call The Captain of our watch to hall: There lies my halberd on the floor; And he that steps iny halberd o'er. To do the maid injurious part,

My shaft shall quiver in his heart!— Beware loose speech, or jesting rough: Te all know John de Brent. Enough.'

IX.

Their Captain came, a gallant young.— (Of Tullibardine's house he sprung), Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; Gay was his mien, his humour light, And, though by courtesy controll'd, Forward his speech, his bearing bold. The high-bom maiden ill could brook The scanning of his curious look And dauntless eye;—and yet, in sooth. Young Lewis was a generous youth; But Ellen's lovely face and mien,

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258

Ill-suited to the garb and scene,

Might lightly bear construction strange,

And give loose fancy scope to range.

'Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!

Come ye to seek a champion's aid,

On palfrey white, with harper hoar.

Like errant damosel of yore?

Does thy high quest a knight require,

Or may the venture suit a squire?'—

Her dark eye flash'd;—she paused and sigh'd,—

'0 what have I to do with pride!—

Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,

A suppliant for a father's life,

I crave an audience of the King.

Behold, to back my suit, a ring,

The royal pledge of grateful claims.

Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.'

The signet-ring young Lewis took.

With deep respect and alter'd look; And said,—'This ring our duties own; And pardon, if to worth unknown, In semblance mean obscurely veil'd.

Lady, in aught my folly fail'd.

Soon as the day flings wide his gates , The King shall know what suitor waits.

Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower Repose you till his waking hour;

Female attendance shall obey Tour best, for service or array.

Permit I marshal you the way.'

But, ere she followed, with the grace And open bounty of her race,

She bade her slender purse be shared Among the soldiers of the guard.

The rest with thanks their guerdon took; But Brent, with shy and awkward look.

On the reluctant maiden's hold Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold;—

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'Forgive a haughty English heart,

And O forget its ruder part!

The vacant purse shall be my share,

Which in my barret-cap I'll bear. Perchance, in jeopardy of war,

Where gayer crests may keep afar.'

With thanks—'twas all she could—the maid His rugged courtesy repaid.

When Ellen forth with Lewis went,

Allan made suit to John of Brent:— 'My lady safe, 0 let your grace Give me to see my master's face; His minstrel I,—to share his doom Bound from the cradle to the tomb.

Tenth in descent, since first my aires Waked for his noble house their lyres. Nor one of all the race was known But prized its weal above their own.

With the Chiefs birth begins our care; Our harp must soothe the infant heir.

Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace His earliest feat of field or chase;

In peace, in war, our rank we keep. We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, Nor leave him till we pour our verse— A doleful tribute!—o'er his hearse.

Then let me share his captive lot;

It is my right—deny it not!'—

'Little we reck,'¹ said John of Brent, 'Wo Southern men, of long descent; Nor wot we how a name—a word—

Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:

Yet kind my noble landlord's part,— God bless the house of Beaudesert!

And, but I loved to drive the deer,

More than to guide the labouring steer, I had not dwelt an outcast here.

Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;

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Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'

XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook,

A bunch of ponderous keys he took,

Lighted a torch, and Allan led

Through grated arch and passage dread.

Portals they pass'd, where, deep within.

Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din;

Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,.

Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword.

And many a hideous engine grim,

For wrenching joint, and crushing limb,

By artists form'd, who deem'd it shame

And sin to give their work a name.

They halted at a low-brow'd porch,

And Brent to Allan gave the torch,

While bolt and chain he backward roll'd,

And made the bar unhasp its hold.

They enter'd:—'twas a prison-room

Of stern security and gloom,

Tet not a dungeon; for the day

Through lofty gratings found its way.

And rude and antique garniture

Deck'd the sad walla and oaken floor;

Such as the rugged days of old

Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold.

'Here,' said De Brent, 'thou mayst remain

Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the warders tell.

To tend the noble prisoner well.'

Retiring then, the bolt he drew,

And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew.

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed

A captive feebly raised his head;

The wondering Minstrel look'd, and knew—

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought.

They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought.

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XIII.

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore Shall never stem the billows more,

Deserted by her gallant band,

Amid the breakers lies astrand,—

So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhn!

And oft his fever'd limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides. Lie rocking in the advancing tides.

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, Yet cannot heave her from her seat;— 0! how unlike her course at sea!

Or his free step on hill and lea!—

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,

'What of thy lady?—of my clan?— My mother?—Douglas?—tell me all!—

Have they been ruin'd in my fall?

Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? Tet speak,—speak boldly,—do not fear.'— (For Allan, who his mood well knew, quot;Was choked with grief and terror too.)— 'Who fought—who fled?—Old man, be brief Some might—for they bad lost their Chief. Who basely live?—who bravely died?'— '0, calm thee. Chief!' the Minstrel cried, 'Ellen is safe;'—'For that, thank Heaven!'— 'And hopes are for the Douglas given;— The Lady Margaret, too, is well;

And, for thy clan,—on field or fell, Has never harp of minstrel told.

Of combat fought so true and bold. Thy stately Pine is yet unbent.

Though many a gloodly bough is rent.¹

XIV.

The Chieftain rear'd his form on high, And fever's fire was in his eye;

But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks Chequer'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. —'Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play.

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262

With, measure bold, on festal day,

In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er

Shall harper play, or warrior hear! . . .

That stirring air that peals on high,

O'er Dermid's race our victory.—

Strike it!—and then, (for well thou canst,)

Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced.

Fling me the picture of the fight.

When met my clan the Saxon might.

I'll listen, till my fancy hears

The clang of swords, the crash of spears!

These grates, these walls, shall vanish then,.

For the fair field of fighting men.

And my free spirit burst away,

As if it soar'd from battle fray.'

The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,—

Slow on the harp his hand he laid;

But soon remembrance of the sight

He witness'd from the mountain's height.

With what old Bertram told at night,

Awaken'd the full power of song.

And bore him in career along;—

As shallop lauch'd on river's tide.

That slow and fearful leaves the side,

But, when it feels the middle stream,

Drives downward swift as lightning's beam

XV.

Battle of BeaV an Duine.

'The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

For, ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray—

Where shall he find, in foreign land,.

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!,

There is no breeze upon the fern _v

Nor ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyrie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;

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The small birds will not sing aloud.

The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud.

That swathes, as with a purple shroud,

Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread.

Or echoes from the groaning ground

The warrior's measured tread?

Is it the lightning's quivering glance

That on the thicket streams,

Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams?

—I see the dagger-crest of Mar,

I see the Moray's silver star,

Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,

That up the lake comes winding far!

To hero bound for battle-strife,

Or bard of martial lay,

'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life. One glance at their array!

XVI.

'Their light-arm'd archers far and near

Survey'd the tangled ground,

Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,

A twillight forest, frown'd ,

Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,

The stern battalia crown'd.

No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,

Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armour's clang,

The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake.

Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,

That shadow'd o'er their road.

Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy a trace .of living thing,

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Save -when they stirr'd the roe;

The host moves, like a deep-sea wave,

Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark, and slow.

The lake is pass'd, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain,

Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;

And here the horae and spearmen pause,

While, to explore the dangerous glen.

Dive through the pass the archer-men.

XVII.

' At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell.

As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!

Forth from the pass in tumult driven.

Like chaff before the wind of heaven.

The archery appear;

For life! for life! their plight they ply— And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high. And broadswords flashing to the sky.

Are maddening in the rear.

Onward they drive, in dreadful race,

Pursuers and pursued;

Before that tide of flight and chase.

How shall it keep its rooted place!

The spearmen's twilight wood?—

' Down, down,' cried Mar, ' your lances down!

Bear back both friend and foe!'—

Like reeds before the tempest's frown,

That serried grove of lances brown

At once lay levell'd low;

And closely shouldering side to side. The bristling ranks the onset bide.—

'We'll quell the savage mountaineer.

As their Tinchel cows the game!

They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame,'—

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XVIII.

'Bearing before them, in their course, The relics of the archer force,

Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,

Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.

Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light.

Each targe was dark below;

And with the ocean's mighty swing.

When heaving to the tempest's wing.

They hurl'd them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,

As when the whirlwind rends the ash,

I heard the broadsword's deadly clang.

As if a hundred anvils i-ang!

But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, —' My banner-man, advance!

I see,' he cried, 'their column shake.— Now , gallants! for your ladies' sake,

Upon them with the lance!'— The horsemen dash'd among the rout,

As deer break through the broom;

Their steeds are stout, their swords are out.

They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne—

Where, where was Roderick then! One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men!

And refluent through the pass of fear

The battle's tide was pour'd;

Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear,

Vanish'd the mountain-sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,

Receives her roaring linn,

As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in.

So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass:

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None linger now upon the plain,

Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

XIX.

'Now westward rolls the battle's din,

That deep and doubling pass within. —Minstrel, away, the work of fate Is bearing on: its issue wait,

Where the rude Trosach's dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.—

Grey Benvenue I soon repass'd,

Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.

The sun is set;—the clouds are met.

The lowering scowl of heaven An inky view of vivid blue To the deep lake has given;

Strange gusts of wiud from mountain-glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. I heeded not the eddying surge,

Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge ,

Mine ear but heard the sullen sound.

Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life. Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul.

Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen The martial flood disgorged agen.

But not in mingled tide;

The plaided warriors of the North High on the mountain thunder forth,

And overhang its side;

While by the lake below appears The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shatter'd band.

Eyeing their foemen , sternly stand;

Their banners stream like tatter'd sail. That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Mark'd the fell havoc of the day.

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XX.

'Viewing the mountain's ridgo askance. The Saxon stood in sullen trance,

Till Moray pointed with his lance, And cried—'Behold yon isle!—

See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that wring the hand: 'Tis there of yore the robber band

Their booty wont to pile;—

My purse, with bonnet-pieces store ,

To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,

And loose a shallop from the shore.

Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,

Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.¹Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, On earth his casque and corslet rung,

He plunged him in the wave: —

All saw the deed—the purpose knew,

And to their clamours Bevenue

A mingled echo gave;

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, The helpless females scream for fear, And yells for rage the mountaineer.

'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,

Pour'd down at once the lowering heaven; A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, Her billows rear'd their snowy crest.

Well for the swimmer swell'd they high. To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him shower'd , 'mid rain and hail, The vengeful arrows of the Gael.— In vain—He nears the isle—and lo !

His hand is on a shallop's bow.

—Just then a flash of lightning came, It tinged the waves and strand with flame; — I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame,

Behind an oak I saw her stand,

A naked dirk gleam'd iii her hand: It darken'd, —but, amid the moan

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Of waves, I heard a dying groan;

Another flash!—the spearman floats A weltering corse beside the boats,

And the stern matron o'er him stood,

Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

XXI.

'' Revenge! revenge!¹ the Saxons cried,

The Gaels' exulting shout replied.

Despite the elemental rage.

Again they hurried to engage;

But, ere they closed in desperate fight.

Bloody with spurring came a knight,

Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,

Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.

Clarion and trumpet by his side

Eung forth a truce-note high and wide,

While, in the Monarch's name, afar

A herald's voice forbade the war.

For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold,

Were both, he said, in captive hold.'

—But here the lay made sudden stand!—

The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!—

Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy

How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy:

At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,

With lifted hand, kept feeble time;

That motion ceased,—yet feeling strong

Varied his look as changed the song;

At length, no more his deafen'd ear

The minstrel melody can hear;

His face grows sharp,—his hands are clench'd.

As if some pang his heart-strings wrench'd;

Set are his teeth, his fading eye

Is sternly fix'd on vacancy;

Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew

His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!—

Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,

While grim and still his spirit pass'd:

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But when he saw that life was fled! He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead.

XX1L Lament.

'And art thou cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade ? For thee shall none a requiem say? —For thee,—who loved the minstrel's lay, For thee, of Both well's house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line,—

E'en in this prison-house of thine,

I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

'What groans shall yonder valleys fill! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!

There breathes not clansman of thy line. But would have given his life for thine.— O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine!

'Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!— The captive thrush may brook the cage. The prison'd eagle dies for rage.

Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain! And, when its notes awake again,

Even she, so long beloved in vain,

Shall with my harp her voice combine. And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine.'—

XXIII.

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, Remain'd in lordly bower apart.

Where play'd with many-colour'd gleams, Through storied pane the rising beams.

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In vain on gilded roof they fall, And lighten'd up a tapestried wall,

And for her use a menial train A rich collation spread in vain.

The banquet proud, the chamber gay.

Scarce drew one curious glance astray;

Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say.

With better omen dawn'd the day In that lone isle, where waved on high The dun-deer's hide for canopy;

Where oft her noble father shared The simple meal her care prepared,

While Lufra, crouching by her side, Her station claim'd with jealous pride. And Douglas, bent on woodland game. Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, Whose answer, oft at random made, The wandering of bis thoughts betray'd— Those who such simple joys have known. Are taught to prize them when they're gone But sudden, see, she lifts her head! The window seeks with cautious tread.

What distant music has the power To win her in this woful hour!

'Twas from a turret that o'erhung Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

XXIV.

Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman. 'My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall.

And I am sick of captive thrall.

I wish I were, as I have been,

Hunting the hart in forest green,

With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time,

From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,

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Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,

Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,

And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,

Drive the fleet deer the forest through.

And homeward wend with evening dew;

A. blithesome welcome blithely meet.

And lay my trophies at her feet.

While fled the eve on wing of glee,—

That life is lost to love and me!'

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said.

The list'ner had not turn'd her head.

It trickled still, the starting tear.

When light a footstep struck her ear,

And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near.

She turn'd the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain.—

'O welcome, brave Fitz-James!' she said;

'How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt'—'0 say not so!

To me no gratitude you owe.

Not mine, alas! the boon to give,

And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid.

With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.

No tyrant he, though ire and pride May lay his better mood aside.

Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time.

He holds his court at morning prime.'

With beating heart, and bosom wrung.

As to a brother's arm she clung.

Gently he dried the falling tear,

And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;

Her faltering steps half led, half staid.

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Through gallery fair, and high arcade.

Till, at its touch, its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI.

Within 'twas brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight.

As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even. And from their tissue, fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames.

Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;

A few faint steps she forward made.

Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence gazed; For him she sought, who own'd this state. The dreaded prince whose will was fate. She gazed on many a princely port.

Might well have ruled a royal court; On many a splendid garb she gazed.

Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed.

For all stood bare, and, in the room, Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady's look was lent;

On him each courtier's eye was bent;

Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen, He stood, in simple Lincoln green. The centre of the glittering ring. And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King?

XXVII.

As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest,

Poor Ellen glided from her stay.

And at the Monarch's feet she lay;

No word her choking voice commands,— She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her hands. O! not a moment could he brook, The generous prince, that suppliant look!

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Gently he raised her; and, the while, Check'd with a glance the circle's smile; Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd. And bade her terrors be dismiss'd;— 'Tea, Fair, the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask nought for Douglas; yester even. His prince and he have much forgiven: Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. We would not, to the vulgar crowd.

Yield what they craved with clamour loud; Calmly we heard and judged his cause. Our council aided, and our laws.

I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern, With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencairn; And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our Throne.— But, lovely infidel, how now?

What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;

Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'—

XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung. And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour. The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,— When it can say, with godlike voice.

Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!

Yet would not James the general eye On Nature's raptures long should pry; He stepp'd between—'Nay, Douglas, nay. Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle 'tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.— Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray In life's more low but happier way ,

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Tis under name which veils my power, Nor faleely veils—for Stirling's tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims. And Normans call me James Fitz-James.

Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,

Thus learn to right the injured cause.'— Then, in a tone apart and low,—

' Ah, little traitress! none must know quot;What idle dream, what lighter thought. What vanity full dearly bought,

Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, In dangerous hour, and all but gave Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!'— Aloud he spoke—'Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold.

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring—

What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'

XXIX.

Full well the conscious maiden guess'd He probed the weakness of her breast; But, with that consciousness, there came A lightening of her fears for Graeme, And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;

And, to her generous feeling true. She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. ' Forbear thy suit:—the King of Kings Alone can stay life's parting wings,

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand My fairest earldom would I give To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!—

Hast thou no other boon to crave?

No other captive friend to savequot;?'

Blushing, she turn'd her from the King, And to the Douglas gave the ring,

As if she wish'd her sire to speak

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The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.— 'Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, And stubborn justice holds her course.— Malcolm, come forth!'—And, at the word, Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's Lord. 'For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues. From thee may Vengeance claim her dues. Who, nurtured underneath our smile,

Hast paid our care by treacherous wile. And sought amid thy faithful clan,

A refuge for an outlaw'd man,

Dishonoui'ing thus thy loyal name.—

Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'— His chain of gold the King unstrung, The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung.

Then gently drew the glittering band, And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark. On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy'a evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway.

And little refck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way. Through secret woes the world has never known.

When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day. And bitterer was the grief devourd'd alone.

That I o'erlive such woes. Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!

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'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire,

Tia now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,

And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell— And now, 'tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well T

LOCHINVAB.

(From mabmion).

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best. And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;; He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war.

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone. He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall.

Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war.

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— And now I am come, with this lost love of mine. To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maideni in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

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The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,

With a smile on her Hps, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— •Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face.

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ' 'Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.¹

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung.

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicka, and Musgraves, they rode and they rans

There was racing and chasing, on Cannoble Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

HYMN OP THE HEBREW MATT).

{From ivanhoe).

When Israel, of the Lord beloved.

Out from the land of bondage came. Her fathers' God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonish'd lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow ;

.By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands Eeturn'd the fiery column's glow.

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There rose the choral hymn of praise

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen; And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone:

Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou has left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen!

When brightly shines the prosperous day ^ Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen

To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path

In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by foreign streams.

The tyrant's jest, the gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But Thou hast said, the blood of goat.

The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought. Are mine accepted sacrifice.

TIME.

{From antiquauy).

'Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall.

Thou aged carle so stern and gray?

Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass'd away?'—

'Know'st thou me not?' the Deep Voice cried

'So long enjoy'd, oft misus'd—

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desir'd, neglected, and accus'd!

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' Before my breath, like blazing flax ,

Man and his marvels pass away: And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay.

'Redeem mine hours—the space is brief—

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver. And measureless thy joy or grief,

■When Time and thou shalt part for ever.'

MEG MERRILIES' SONG.

{From guy mannering).

Twist ye, twine ye! even so.

Mingle shades of joy and woe,

Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife. In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning. And the infant's life beginning,

Dimly seen through twilight bending, Lo, what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain, Pleasure soon exchanged for pain; Doubt, and jealousy, and fear.

In the magic dance appear.

Now they wax, and now they dwindle Whirling with the whirling spindle. Twist ye, twine ye! even so ,

Mingle human bliss and woe.

HUNTING SONG.

Waken, lords and ladies gay. On the mountain dawns the day. All the jolly chase is here.

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With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear Hounds are in their couples yelling.

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. Merrily, merrily mingle they,

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.

The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are streaming. Diamonds on the brake are gleaming. And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay,

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

To the greenwood haste away;

We can show you where he lies.

Fleet of foot, and tall of size;

We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay,— 'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay,

Waken lords and ladies gay;

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee. Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman, who can baulk, Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk? Think of this, and rise with day.

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

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THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777—1844). THE MOTHER.

{From pleasubes or hope.)

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps;

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,

Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. And weaves a song of melancholy joy—

'Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy: No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;

No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;

Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,

Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past—

With many a smile my solitude repay.

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

'And say, when summoned from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree,

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?

Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour to shed The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;

With aching temples on thy hand reclined,

Muse on the last farewell I leave behind.

Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love, and all my woe?'

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply;

But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name;

Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,

Or lisps with holy look his evening grayer.

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Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; How fondly looks admiring- Hope the while, At every artless tear, and every smile! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

THE WANDERER.

{From pleasure of hope).

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore.

But found not pity when it erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye The unfeeling proud one looks—and passes by. Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam,

Scorned by the world, and left without a home—

Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,

Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green.

Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while— Oh! that for me some home like this would smile.

Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!

There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!—

That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,

And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer.

HOPE'S FINAL TRIUMPH.

{From pleasuke op hope).

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave—oh! leave the light of Hope behind!

What though my winged hours of bliss have been,

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Like angel-visits, few and far between,

Her musing mood shall every pang appease,

And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please

Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:

Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea—

Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile,

Chase every care, and charm a little while,

Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,

And all her strings are harmonised to joy!—

But why so short is Love's delighted hour?

Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower?

Why can no hymnèd charm of music heal

The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel?

Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create.

To hide the sad realities of fate?—

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule. Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school,

Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,

The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!

When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,

Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls;

When, 'reft of all, yon widowed sire appears A lonely hermit in the vale of years;

Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe? No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—

Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you! Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain, Congenial spirits part to meet again!

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.—

When all the sister planets have decayed;

When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow. And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

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O'COMTTOBi'S CHILD.

oe, the flower op love lies bleeding.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness;

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,

As winds that moan at night forlorn

Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,

The harper told, how lone, how far

From any mansion's twinkling star.

From any path of social men,

Or voice, but from the fox's den,

The lady in the desert dwelt;

And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt;

Say, why should dwell in place so wild,

O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power. As, in the palace of her sires,

She bloomed a peerless flower.

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal brooch, the jewelled ring,

That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,

Like dews on lilies of the spring.

Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne. Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,

While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host,

So far on Gal way's shipwrecked coast; Why wanders she a huntress wild— O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

And fixed on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wildness;

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And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness?

Dishevelled are her raven locks;

On Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals.

Placed in the foxglove and the moss,

Behold a parted warrior's cross!

That is the spot where, evermore.

The lady, at her shieling door,

Enjoys that, in communion sv.-eet.

The living and the dead can meet;

For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy.

The hero of her heart is nigh.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,

In Erin's yellow vesture clad,

A son of light—a lovely form,

He comes and makes her glad;

Now on the grass-green turf he sits,

His tasselled horn beside him laid;

Now o'er the hills in chase he flits.

The hunter and the deer a shade!

Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain

That cross the twilight of her brain;

Yet she will tell you she is blest.

Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed,

More richly than in Aghrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power.

And kneeling pages offered up

The morat in a golden cup.

A hero's bride! this desert bower.

It ill befits thy gentle breeding: And wherefore dost thou love this flower To call—'My love lies bleeding?'

'This purple flower my tears have nursed; A hero's blood supplied its bloom:

I love it, for it was the first That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.

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Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!

This desert mansion is my choice! And blest, though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar;

For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me; And every rock and every stone Bear witness that he was my own.

'O'Connor's child, I was the bud

Of Erin's royal tree of glory;

But woe to them that wrapt in blood

The tissue of my story!

Still as I clasp my burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight;

It rises o'er and o'er again,

The bloody feud—the fatal night.

When chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,

They called my hero basely born;

And bade him choose a meaner bride

Than from O'Connor's house of pride.

Their tribe, they said, their high degree,

Was sung in Tara's psaltery;

Witness their Eath's victorious brand.

And Cathal of the bloody hand;

Glory (they said) and power and honour

Were in the mansion of O'Connor:

But he, my loved one, bore in field

A meaner crest upon his shield.

' Ah, brothers! what did it avail,

That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the pale, And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me,

That barons by your standard rode; Or beal-fires for your jubilee,

Upon a hundred mountains glowed?

What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North Sea foam,—

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Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied? No:—let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun,

That could not, would not, be undone!

'At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love—'Oh, come with me: Our bark is on the lake, behold Our steeds are fastened to the tree.

Come far from Castle Connor's clans-Come with thy belted forestere,

And I, beside the lake of swans,

Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; And berries from the wood provide,

And play my clarshech by thy side.

Then come, my love!'-How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies.

The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

'And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle Connor fade!

Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this unploughed, untrodden shore;

Like birds all joyous from the cage, For man's neglect we loved it more.

And well he knew, my huntsman dear, To search the game with hawk and spear; While I, his evening food to dress,

quot;Would sing to him in happiness.

But, oh, that midnight of despair!

When I was doomed to rend my hair: The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow! The night, to him, that had no morrow!

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'When all was hushed, at eventide, I heard the baying of their beagle: 'Be hushed!' my Connocht Moran cried, 'quot;Tis but the screaming of the eagle.' Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound;

Their bloody bands had tracked us out; Up-listening starts our couchant hound. And, hark! again, the nearer shout Brings faster-on the murderers. Spare—spare him—Brazil—Desmond fierce In vain—no voice the adder charms;

Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms Another's sword has laid him low. Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow— Ah me! it was a brother's!

Yes, when his meanings died away.

Their iron hands had dug the clay. And o'er his burial turf they trod,

And I beheld—Oh God! Oh God! His life-blood oozing from the sod!

'Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas! my warrior's spirit brave.

Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard,

Lamenting, soothe his grave.

Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom's grasp I lay, I knew not, for my soul was black. And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew;

Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,

'Twas but when those grim visages. The angry brothers of my race,

■Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And checked my bosom's power to Bob_vOr when my heart with pulses drear. Beat like a death-watch to my ear.

'But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse

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Did with a vision bright inspire:

I woke and felt upon my lips A prophetess's fire.

Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,

I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,

And ranged, as to the judgment-seat,

My guilty, trembling brothers round.

Clad in the helm and shield they came;

For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries.

And lighted up the midnight skies.

The standard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay;

That standard, with so dire a look.

As ghastly shone the moon and pale,

I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail.

quot;And go!' I cried, 'the combat seek,

Ye hearts that unappallèd bore The anguish of a sister's shriek,

Go!—and return no more!

For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand,

Beneath a sister's curse unrolled.'

0 stranger! by my country's loss!

And by my love! and by the cross!

1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that severed nature's yoke;

But that a spirit o'er me stood.

And fired me with the wrathful mood;

And frenzy to my heart was given,

To speak the malison of heaven.'

'They would have crossed themselves, all mute;

They would have prayed to burst the spell;

But at the stamping of my foot, '

Each hand down powerless fell!

'And go to Athunree!' I cried,

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'High lift the banner of your pride!

But know that where its sheet unrolls,

The weight of blood is on your souls!

Go where the havoc of your kerne

Shall float as high as mountain fern!

Men shall no more your mansion know;

The nettles on your hearth shall grow!

Dead, as the green oblivious flood

That mantles by your walls, shall be

The glory of O'Connor's blood:

Away ! away to Athnnree !

Where, downward when the sun shall fall,

The raven's wing shall be your pall!

And not a vassal shall unlace

The vizor from your dying face!'

'A bolt that overhung our dome Suspended till my curse was given,

Soon as it passed these lips of foam, Pealed in the blood-red heaven.

Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw: But now, behold ! like cataracts,

Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumed partisans;

Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Where marching to their doom:

A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, And all again was gloom!

'Stranger! I fled the home of grief. At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;

I found the helmet of my chief.

His bow still hanging on our wall, And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould.

No! for I am a hero's child;

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I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;

And still my home this mansion make,

Of all unheeded and unheeding,

And cherish, for my warrior's sake—

'The flower of love lies bleeding.quot;

BATTLE OP THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown.

When to battle flerce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone:

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

O'er the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime,

As they drifted on their path;

There was silence deep as death,

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

But the might of England flushed.

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships.

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack.

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Till a feebler cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—

Then ceased—and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave:

'Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:—

So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King.'

Then Denmark blessed our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose.

As death withdrew his shades from the day

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight.

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

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With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

YE MARINERS OP ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To meet another foo!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long.

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! —

For the deck it was their field of fame. And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

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When the stormy tempests blow:

When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blo-w.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocea.n-wamors!

Our song and feast shall flow-

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more _r

And the storm has ceased to blow.

THE LAST MAW.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom ,

The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulph of Time !

I saw the last of human mould,

That shall Creation's death behold , As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare ,

The Earth with age was wan , The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,—the brands-Still rested an their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

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Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.

With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by,—

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run ,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

' What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,

Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts.

' Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men ,

Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back. Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe ;

Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred , Or mown in battle by the sword.

Like grass beneath the scythe.

'E'en I am weary in yon skies

To watch thj' fading fire;

Test of all sumless agonies.

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast.

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The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost!

'This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark;

Yet think not, Snn, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark!

No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,

Who captive led captivity.

Who robbed the grave of Victory,—-And took the sting from Death!

'Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste—

Go, tell the nitrht that hides thy face, Thou saw st the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod , The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!'

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

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By torch, and trumpet fast arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven. And louder than the bolts of heaven , Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet. And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free!

If any star shed peace, 'tis thou.

That send'st it from above;

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love.

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Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard.

And songs, when toil is done,

From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews.

Parted lovers on thee muse;

Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art,— Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart.

EXILE OP ERIN.

These came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean ,

Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion ,

He sang the bold anthem of ' Erin go bragh!'

'Sad is my fate!' said the heart-broken stranger,

' The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers.

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours , Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!

' Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken ,

In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore;

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

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And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase mel Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They die to defend me, or live to deplore!

'Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood?

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall ?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

'Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! ' Erin go bragh!'

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavoumin—Erin go bragh!quot;

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound.

Cries, ' Boatman , do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry.'

' Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water r' 'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this Lord TJllin's daughter.

' And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together. For should he find us in the glen; My blood would stain the heather.

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' His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?'

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,

'I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:—

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

' And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace. The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

' Oh haste thee, haste!' the lady cries , 'Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—

When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover:

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One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,

'Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief. My daughter!—oh! my daughter!'

'Twas vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child—

And he was left lamenting.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles Bang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And trice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array.

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;

'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

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Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn;

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

FIELD FLOWERS.

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you.

For ye waft me to summers of old.

When the earth teemed around me with faery delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm,

quot;While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:

Of old ruinous castles ye tell.

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find. When the magic of Nature first breathed my mind. And your blossoms were part of her spell.

E'en now what affections the violet awakes;

' Whafloved little islands twice seen in their lakes. Can the wild water-lily restore;

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks. And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And wish you to grow on my tomb.

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GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788—1824).

MODERN CRITICS AND MODERN POETS.

{From english bards and scotch reviewers.)

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure—critics all are ready made.

Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote,

With just enough of learning to misquote;

A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;

A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;

To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet.

His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:

Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit;

Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;

Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,

And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.

The time has been, when yet the muse was young.

When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung,

An epic scarce ten centuries could claim,

While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years:

Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth.

Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give,

As even in ruin bids the language live.

Not so with us, though minor bards, content,

On one great work a life of labour spent:

With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,

Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise!

To him let Camoëns, Milton, Tasso yield,

Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,

The scourge of England and the boast of France! Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch,

Behold her statue placed in glory's niche;

Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,

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A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen.

Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,

Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son; DomdanieVs dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome,

For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!

Since startled metre fled before thy face,

Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ' Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense!

Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales;

Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh, Southey! Southey! cease thy varied song! A bard may chant too often and too long; As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say.

Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil.

Thou wilt devote old women to the devil. The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: 'God help thee' Southey, and thy readers too!

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule,

The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend to ' shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double;^vWho, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; Convincing all, by demonstration plain.

Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories, tortur'd into rhyme, Contain the essence of the true sublime.

Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of 'an idiot boy;'

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A moon-struck silly lad, who lost his way,

And, like his bard, confounded night with day;

So close on each pathetic part he dwells,

And each adventure so sublimely tells,

That all who view the 'idiot in his glory'

Conceive the bard the hero of the story.

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here,

To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?

Though themes of innocence amuse him best,

Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest.

If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse,

Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass.

So well the subject suits his noble mind,

He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kind.

Oh! wonder-working Lewis! monk, or bard,

Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard!

Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,

Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!

Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,

By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band;

Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,

To please the females of our modsst age;

All hail! M. P.! from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train!

At whose command ' grim women' throng in crowds,

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds.

With 'small grey men,' 'wild yagers,'and what not?

To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott;

Again all hail! if tales like thine may please,

St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease;

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,

And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,

With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd,

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Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd V

'Tis is Little! young Catullus of his day,

As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay!

Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just.

Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.

Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;

From grosser incense with disgust she turns:

Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,

She bids thee 'mend thy line, and sin no more.'

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

my native land—good night.

' Adieu , adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Ton sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee. My native Land—Good Night!

'A few short hours and he will rise To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies. But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along.'

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'Let winds be shrill, let -wares roll high, I fear not wave nor wind;

Tet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love.

And have no friend, save these alone, But thee—and One above.

'My father bless'd me fervently,

Tet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh.

Till I come back again.'—

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry.

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman! Or shiver at the gale?'

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall. Along the bordering lake.

And when they on their father call.

What answer shall she make?'—

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good. Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.

'For who would trust the seeming sighs Or wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er.

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For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.

'And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea:

But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to.

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye darkblue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native Land—Good Night!'

lisboa akd cintha.

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!

Her image floating on that noble tide,

Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, ' And to the Lusians did her aid afford;

A nation swoln with ignorance and pride.

Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

But whoso entereth within this town.

That sheening far, celestial seems to be.

Disconsolate will wander up and down,

'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;

For hut and palace show like filthily:

The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt;

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Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,

Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd—unhurt.

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midat noblest scenes! Why, Nature, -waste thy wonders on such men? Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen.

Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,

To follow half on which the eye dilates,

Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates.

Who, to the awe-struck world, unlock'd Elysium's gates?

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd. The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain moss, by scorching sties imbrown'd. The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep. The tender azure of the unruffled deep,

The orange tints that gild the greenest bough. The torrents that from cliff to valley leap.

The vine on high, the willow branch below,

Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

Then slowly climb the many-winding way.

And frequent turn to linger as you go,

From loftier rocks new loveliness survey.

And rest ye at ' Our Lady's house of woe Where frugal monks their little relics show.

And sundry legends to the stranger tell:

Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo!

Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell,

In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.

And here and there, as up the crags you spring,

Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:

Yet deem not these devotion's offering—

These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,

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Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;

And grove and glen with thousands such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life-

spanish bull tight.

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;

Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne vacant space for lated wight is found:

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,

Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye.

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die. As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.

Hush'd is the din of tongues—on gallant steeds.

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance_rFour cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds.

And, lowly bending, to the lists advance;

Eich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:

If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,

Best prize of better acts, they bear away,

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd.

But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er.

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed—

Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,

The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.

Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute.

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And, wildly staring; spurns, with sounding foot,

The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

Sudden he stops; his eye is flx'd: away.

Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:

Now is thy time, to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career.

With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;

On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;

Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes;

Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,

Nor the wild plunging of the tortur'd horse;

Though man and man's avenging arms assail,

Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse;

Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears.

His gory chest unveils life's panting source;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last.

Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

'Mid wounds and clinging darts, and lances brast. And foes disabled in the brutal fray:

And now the Matadores around him play,

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:

Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand!

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine.

Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.

He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline:

Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,

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Without a groan, without a struggle, dies.

The decorated car appears—on high The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes!—

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,

Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

solitude.

^v To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess.

And roam along, the world's tired denizen.

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

THE NIGHT BErOKE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again.

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knoll!

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

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On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till mom, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet— But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival.

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deem'd it near. His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress.

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes.

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed.

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—'The foe! They come! they come!'

And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose. The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

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Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's earst

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves.

Over the unreturning brave,—alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe.

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay.

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, the—day Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay.

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,

Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

napoleon.

Theee sunk the greatest nor the worst of men;

Whose spirit antithetically mixed One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed;

Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt. Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For daring made thy rise, as fall: thou seek'st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien,

And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

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Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!

She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,

Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert,

Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.

Oh! more or less than man—in high or low.

Battling with nations, flying from the field;

Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;

An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild.

But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,

However deeply in men's spirits akill'd.

Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Yet, well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy.

Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by.

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye; —

When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled!

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,

And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow;

'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;

So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

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If, like a tower upon a headlong rock,

Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone;

The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)

Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore.

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core.

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion; conquerors and kings,

Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs.

And are themselves the fools to those they fool;

Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school quot;Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:

Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm, whereon they ride, to sink at last,

And yet, so nursed and bigoted to strife,

That should their days, surviving perils past,

Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die;

Even as a flame unfed , which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,

Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

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the rhine.

The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. And fields which promise com and wine, And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine. Have strew'd a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers,

Walk smiling o'er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey , And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay.

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must wither'd be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherish'd them as dear.

Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here,

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground.

And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round:

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound

Through life to dwell delighted here;

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Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

the lake 01' geneva.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake.

With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen.

Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitiously steep; and drawing near.

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet freah with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more:

He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill;

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill,

But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires .—'tis to be forgiven.

That, in our aspirations to be great.

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Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you: for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune , fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep. But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;

And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still:—From the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,

All is concenter'd in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone;

A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self: it is a tone,

The soul and scource of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,

Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone.

Binding all things with beauty;—'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek The Spirit in whose honour shrines are weak,

Uprear'd of human hands. Come and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,

With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,

Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer!

Thy sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night. And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

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From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,

Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night:—Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and fair delight,—

A portion of the tempest and of thee!

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea.

And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again 'tis black,—and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene.

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted. Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: — Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,—war within themselves to wage.

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way. The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand. Flashing and cast around: of all the band.

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings,—as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd.

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll

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Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest.

But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal ?

Are ye like those within the human breast?

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?

Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,—could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. All that I would have sought, and all I seek.

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe-into one word. And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard.

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

CLiREKCE.

Clakeks ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love I Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught,

And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks. The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks,

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks.

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,—

Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,—so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown ,

His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.

All things are here of Mm; from the black pines.

Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore,

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Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,

Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood.

The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,

But light leaves, young as Joy, stands where it stood. Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude.

A populous solitude of bees and birds.

And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things.

Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. And innocently open their glad wings,

Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,

And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which rings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,

Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more,

For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes,

And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis his nature to advance or die;

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot.

Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the wind's purified beings; 'twas^the ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound. And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone.

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound,

And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne.

a moonlight night on the banks op the brent a.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night-Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height

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Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West,

Where the Day joins the past Eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air~an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Ton sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Eoll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill.

As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaiin'd her order:—gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows.

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar,

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse:

And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till—'t is gone—and all is gray.

the cataract of veliko.

The roar of waters! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;

The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss;

The hell of water! where they howl and hiss.

And boil in endless torture; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set.

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round.

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With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,

Is an eternal April to the ground,

Making it all all one emerald:—how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent.

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Tom from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly With many windings, through the vale.-—Look back! Lo! where it comes like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,

Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract,

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn. An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,

Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,

Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.

HOME.

Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,

Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.

What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, quot;ïe!

Whose agonies are evils of a day—

A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

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The Niobe of nations! there she stands ,

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;

An empty urn within her wither'd hands,

Whose holy dust was scatter'd long agoj The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;

The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,

Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;

She saw her glories star by star expire,

And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,

Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:—

Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,

O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light.

And say, 'here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?

The double night of ages, and of her,

Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err:

The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap Our hands, and cry ' Eureka!' it is clear—

When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

Alas! the lofty city! and alas !

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!

Alas, far Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay.

And Livy's pictured page!—but these shall be Her resurrection; all beside—decay.

Alas, for Earth, for never shull we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!

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FREEDOM.

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker—but of things allow'd,

Averr'd and known, and daily, hourly seen—■

The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd,

And the intent of tyranny avow'd.

The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud,

And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be,

And Freedom find no champion and no child,

Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled?

Or must such minds be nouriah'd in the wild.

Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ?

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;

Because the deadly days which we have seen,

And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,

And the base pageant last upon the scene.

Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst—his second fall.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,

Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;

Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,

Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth,

But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;

So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

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invocation 10 nemesis.

And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!

Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long—

Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss,

And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution—just.

Had it but been from hands less dear—in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!

Dost thou not hear my heart?—Awake! thou shalt, and must.

It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound;

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground;

To thee I do devote it—thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found,

Which if I have not taken for the sake—

But let that pass—I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake.

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now I shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow.

Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak;

But in this page a record will I seek.

Not in the air shall these my words disperse.

Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fullness of this verse,

And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse!

That curse shall be Forgiveness.—Have I not—

Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it. Heaven!—

Have I not had to wrestle with my lot!

Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven?

Have I not had my biain sear'd, my heart riven,

Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied away?

And only not to desperation driven,

Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.

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From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy,

Have I not seen what human things could do?

From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few,

And subtler venom of the reptile crew,

The Janus glance of whose significant eye,

Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh.

Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain; But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; Something unearthly, which they deem not of.

Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre,

Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.

the ocean.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!

Then thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin—his control Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd , and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise And shake him from thee, the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,

Spuming him from thy bosom to the skies. And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to. his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in a^me near port or bay.

And dashest him again to earth;—there let him lay.

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The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals,

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,

They melt into thy yeast of waves , which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play—

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed—in breeze , or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;—boundless, endless and sublime— The image of Eternity—the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee, thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone

And I have loved thee. Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers—they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas pleasing fear;

For I was as it were a child of thee.

And trusted to thy billows far and near.

And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

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ANCIENT AND MODERN GEEECE.

(From the giaouk.)

Fair clime! -where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles,

Which, seen from far Colonna's height,

Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight.

There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the Eastern wave:

And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas,

Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there ! For there—the Hose o'er crag or vale,

Sultana of the Nightingale,

The maid for whom his melody.

His thousand songs are heard on high,

Blooms blushing to her lover's tale :

His queen, the garden queen , his Rose,

Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows,

Far from the winters of the West,

By every breeze and season blest.

Returns the sweets by Nature given In softest incense back to heaven;

And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.

And many a summer flower is there,

And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest,

That holds the pirate for a guest;

Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow.

Till the gay mariner's guitar Is heard, and seen the evening star;

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Then stealing with the muffled oar,

Far shaded by the rocky shore ,

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,

And turn to groans his roundelay.

Strange—that where Nature loved to trace,

As if for gods, a dwelling-place.

And every charm and grace hath mix'd

Within the paradise she fix'd,

There man, enamour'd of distress,

Should mar it into wilderness.

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower

That tasks not one laborious hour;

Nor claims the culture of his hand

To bloom along the fairy land,

But springs as to preclude his care,

And sweetly woos him—but to spare!'

Strange—that where all is peace beside,

There passion riots in her pride,

And lust and rapine wildly reign

To darken o'er the fair domain.

It is as though the fiends prevail'd,

Against the seraphs they assail'd.

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell

The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy!

So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness.

The last of danger and distress,

(Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there,

The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek.

And—but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now; And but for that chill changeless brow,

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Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,

The first, last look by death reveal'd!

Such is the aspect of this shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Here is the lovelines in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay.

The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave. Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

That this is all remains of thee ?

Approach, thou craven crouching slave;

Say, is not this Thermopylae?

These waters blue that round you lave,

Oh servile offspring of the free!—

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?

The gulf, the rock of Salamis!

These scenes, their story not unknown,

Arise, and make again your own;

Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires;

And he who in the strife expires Wild add to theirs a name of fear

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That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame,

They too will rather die than shame: For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won.

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age!

While kings, in dusty darkness hid.

Have left a nameless pyramid , Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land!

There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. Each step from splendour to disgrace; Enough—no foreign foe conld quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway.

ZULEIKA.

[From the beide of abïdos.)

Faib, as the first that fell of womankind,

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind—

But once beguiled—and ever more beguiling; Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian,

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven; Soft, as the memory of buried love;

Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above; Was she—the daughter of that rude old chief, Who met the maid with tears- but not of grief.

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Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight. His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might—the majesty of Loveliness?

Such was Zuleika—such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone; The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole— And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

CONBAD THE COBSAIR.

(From the corsaib).

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,

Demons in act, but gods at least in face,

In Conrad's form seems little to admire.

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire:

Robust but not Herculean—to the sight

No giant frame sets forth his common height;

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;

They gaze and marvel how—and still confess

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale

The sable curls in wild profusion veil;

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals.

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien;

Still seems there something he would not have seen:

His features' deepening lines and varying hue

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view.

As if within that murkiness of mind

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined;

Such might it be—that none could truly tell—

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.

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There breathe but few -whose aspect might defy

The full encounter of his searching eye:

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,

At once the observer's purpose to espy,

And on himself roll back his scrutiny,

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs to day.

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer,

That raised emotions both of rage and fear;

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

Hope withering fled—and Mercy sigh'd farewell!

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, Within—within—'twas there the spirit wrought! Love shows all changes—Hate, Ambition, Guile, Betray no further than the bitter smile—

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown Along the govem'd aspect, speak alone Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, He, who would see, must be himself unseen. Then—with the hurried tread, the upward eye, The clenched hand, the pause of agony.

That listens, starting, lest the step too near Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: Then—with each feature working from the heart. With feelings loosed to strengthen—not depart: That rise—convulse—contend—that freeze or glow. Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow; Then—Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not, Behold his soul—the rest that soothes his lot! Mark—how that lone and blighted bosom sears The scathing thought of execrated years 1 Behold—but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, Man as himself—the secret spirit free?

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent To lead the guilty—guilt's worst instrument! His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven.

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Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school,

In -words too wise, in conduct there a fool;

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe.

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,

And not the traitors who betray'd him still;

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men

Had left him joy, and means to give again.

Pear'd—shunn'd—belied—ere youth had lost her force-

He hated Man too much to feel remorse,

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,

To pay the injuries of some ou all.

He knew himself a villain—but he deem d

The rest no better than the thing he seem'd;

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.

He knew himself detested, but he knew

The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too.

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt

From all affection and from all contempt:

His name could sadden; and his acts surprise;

But they that fear'd him dared not to despise:

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake

The slumbering venom of the folded snake;

The first may turn—but not avenge the blow.

The last expires—but leaves no living foe;

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings,

And he may crush—not conquer—still it stings!

None are all evil—quickening round his heart. One softer feeling would not yet depart;

Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled By passions worthy of a fool or child;

Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, And even in him it asks the name of—Love!

Yes, it was love—unchangeable—unchanged.

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged:

Though fairest captives daily met his eye.

He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower,

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None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.

Yes—it was love—if thoughts of tenderness,

Tried in temptation , strengthen'd by distress,

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,

And yet—Oh more than alll—untired by time;

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile.

Could render sullen were she near to smile,

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent

On her one murmur of his discontent;

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;

Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove—

If there be love in mortals—this was love!

He was a villain—ay—reproaches shower

On him—but not the passion, nor its power,

Which only proved, all other virtues gone,

Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!

LARA.

{From lara.)

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fesir'd;

Opinion, varying o'er his hidden lot,

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot:

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate—

They guess'd—they gazed—they fain would know his fate.

What had he been? what was he, thus unknown.

Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known,

A hater of his kind? yet some would say.

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;

But own'd, that smile, if oft observed and near.

Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer;

That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by.

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:

Yet there was softness too in his regard ,

At times, a heart as not by Nature hard,

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But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,

And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem

One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem;

In self-inflicted penance of a breast.

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;

In vigilance of grief, that would compel

The soul to hate for having loved too well.

There was in him a vital scorn of all,

As if the worst had fall'n which could befall: He stood a stranger in this breathing world. An erring spirit from another hurl'd:

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped: But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet His mind would half exult and half regret:

quot;With more capacity for love than earth Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, Bis early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth,

With thought of years in phantom-chase misspent, And wasted powers, for better purpose lent; And fiery passions, that had pour'd their wrath In hurried desolation o'er his path,

And left the better feelings all at strife In wild reflection o'er his stormy life;

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame. He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame; And charged all faults upon the fleshly form She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;

Till he at last confounded good and ill.

And half mistook for fate the acts of will:

Too high for common selfishness, he could At times resign his own for others' good,

But not in pity, not because he ought.

But in some strange perversity of thought,

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride To do what few or none would do beside;

And this same impulse would, in tempting time,

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Mislead his spirit equally to crime;

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath, The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, And long'd by good or ill to separate Himself from all who shared his mortal state; His mind abhorring this, had fix'd her throne Far from the world, in regions of her own:

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below,

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow: Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd. But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd!

Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd. And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start. His madness was not of the head, but heart; And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

With all that chilling mystery of mien, And seeming gladness to remain unseen.

He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art Of fixing memory on another's heart;

It was not love perchance—nor hate—nor aught That words can image to express the thought; But they who saw him did not see in vain, And once beheld, would ask of him again: And those to whom he spake remember'd well, And on the words, hower light, would dwell:

None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined Himself perforce around the hearer's mind;

There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, If greeted once; however brief the date That friendship, pity, or aversion knew,

Still there within the inmost thought he grew. You could not penetrate his soul, but found. Despite your wonder, to your own he wound; His presence haunted still; and from the breast He forced an all-unwilling interest:

Vain was the struggle in that mental net.

His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!

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MANFRED'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.

{From manfked.)

Glorious Orb! tho idol Op early nature, and the vigorons race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a sex More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits, who can ne'er return. —

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!

Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

Which gladden'd, on their mountain-tops, the hearts Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd Themselves in orisons! Thou material God! And representative of the Unknown—

Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star! Centre of many stars! which makest our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy [rays !

Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes. And those who dwell in them! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee.

Even as our outward aspects;—thou dost rise. And shine, and set in glory. Pare^ theequot; well!

I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been Of a more fatal nature. He is gone—

I follow.

MANFRED'S NOCTURNAL SOLILOQUY.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!

I linger yet with Nature, for the night

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Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I leam'd the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth,

When I was wandering—upon such a night,

I stood within the Coliseum's wall,

'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;

The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and More near, from out the Caesars' palace, came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly ,

Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind.

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot—where the Csesara dwelt. And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;—

* But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands,

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Csesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.—

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light.

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!— The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.—

'Twas such a night! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;

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But, I have found, our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.

THE LAMENT OP TASSO.

Long years!—It tries the thrilling frame to bear.

And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song—

Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong;

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude ,

And the mind's canker in its savage mood.

When the impatient thirst of light and air

Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate.

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade.

Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain _r

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;

And bare, at once. Captivity display'd

Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate.

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day.

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;

And I can banquet like a beast of prey,

Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave

Which is my lair, and—it may be—my grave..

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear.

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;

For I have battled with mine agony.

And made me wings wherewith to overfly

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall.

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;

And revell'd among men and things divine,

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,

In honour of the sacred war for Him,

The God who was on earth and is in heaven,

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven _r

I have employ'd my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

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But this is o'er—my pleasant task is done;—

My long-sustaining friend of many years!

If I do blot thy final page with tears,

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.

But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!

Which ever playing round me came and smiled,

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,

Thou too art gone—and so is my delight:

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed

With this last bruise upon a broken reed.

Thou too art ended—what is left me now?

For I have anguish yet to bear—and how ?

I know not that—but in the innate force

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. ,

I have not sunk , for I had no remorse,

Nor cause for such; they call'd me mad—and why?

0 Leonora! wilt not thou reply?

1 was indeed delirious in my heart To lift my love so lofty as thou art;

But still my frenzy was not of the mind;

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent.

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind ,

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind:

But let them go, or torture as they will,

My heart can multiply thine image still;

Successful love may sate itself away,

The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate

To have all feeling save the one decay, '

And every passion into one dilate,

As rapid rivers into ocean pour;

But ours is fathomless, a,nd hath no shore.

Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry

Of minds and bodies in captivity.

And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy !

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind,

And dim the little light that's left behind

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With needless torture, as their tyrant will

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:

With these and with their victims am I class'd,

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd;

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close:

So let it be—for then I shall repose.

I have been patient, let me be so yet,

I had forgotten half I would forget,

But it revives—Oh! would it were my lot

To be forgetful as I am forgot!—

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell

In ibis vast lazar-house of many woes?

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,

Nor words a language, nor even men mankind;

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,

And each is tortured in his separate hell—

For we are crowded in our solitudes—

Many, but each divided by the wall.

Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods;—

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call—

None! save that one, the veriest wretch of all,

Who was not made to be the mate of these.

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease.

Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?

Who have debased me in the minds of men,

Debarring me the usage of my own,

Blighting my life in best of its career,

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?

Would I not pay them back these pangs again,

And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan?

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,

Which undermines our Stoical success?

No!—still too proud to be vindictive—I

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die.

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake

I weed all bitterness from out my breast,

It hath no business where thou art a guest;

Thy brother hates—but I can not detest;

Thou pitiest not—but I can not forsake.

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Look on a love which, knows not to despair , But all unquench'd is still my better part, Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud , Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud,

Till struck,—forth flies the all-ethereal dart! And thus, at the collision of thy name,

The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, And for a moment all things as they were Flit by me;—they are gone—I am the same. And yet my love without ambition grew;

I knew thy state, my station, and I knew A princess was no love-mate for a bard;

I told it not, I breathed it not, it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward;

And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas!

Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, And yet I did not venture to repine.

Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd Thy lineaments in a beauty that dismay'd— Oh! not dismay'd—but awed, like One above! And in that sweet severity there was A. something which all softness did surpass— I know not how—thy genius master'd mine— My star stood still before thee:—if it were Presumptious thus to love without design.

That sad fatality hath cost me dear;

But thou art dearest still, and I should be Fit for this cell, which wrongs me—but for thee. The very love which lock'd me to my chain Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest. Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, And look to thee with undivided breast.

And foil the ingenuity of Pain.

It is no marvel—from my very birth

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My soul was drunk with love _l which did pervade And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth, Of objects all inanimate I made Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise,

Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering; and the wise Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said Of suchquot;materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, And that the only lesson was a blow;—

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt Keturn'd and wept alone, and dream'd again The visions which arise without a sleep.

And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; And the whole heart exhaled into one want, But undefined and wandering, till the day I found the thing I sought and that was thee; And then I lost my being, all to be Absorb'd in thine—the world was past away— Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!

I loved all solitude—but little thought To spend I know not what of life, remote From all communion with existence, save The maniac and his tyrant;—had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? Perchance in such a cell we suffer more Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore; The world is all before him—mine is here,

Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. What though he perish, he may lift his eye And with a dying glance upbraid the sky—

I will not raise my own in such reproof.

Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.

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Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,

But with a sense of its decay:—I see Unwonted lights along my prison shine,

And a strange demon, who is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healtful and the free:

But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so.

Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place.

And all that may be borne, or can debase.

I thought mine enemies had been but Man,

But spirits may be leagued with them—all Earth Abandons—Heaven forgets me; —in the dearth Of such defence the Powers of Evil can,

It may be, tempt me further,—and prevail Against the outworn creature they assail.

Why in this furnace is my spirit proved Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved?

Because I loved what not to love, and see,

Was more or less than mortal, and than me.

I once was quick in feeling—that is o'er;—

My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd

My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd

In mockery through them;—if I bear and bore

The much I have recounted, and the more

Which hath no words,—'tis that I would not die,

And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame

Stamp Madness deep into my memory.

And woo Compassion to a blighted name ,

Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.

No—it shall be immortal!—and I make

A future temple of my present cell,

Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.

While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell

The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,

And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls,

A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,—

A poet's dungeon thy most far renown ,

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls!

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And thou, Leonora!—thou who wert ashamed That such as I could love—who blush'd to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, Go! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed By grief, years, weariness—and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me—

From long infection of a den like this.

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, Adores thee still:—and add—that when the towers And battlements which guard his joyous hours Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot.

Or left untended in a dull repose,

This—this—shall be a consecrated spot! But thou—when all that Birth and Beauty throws Of magic round thee is extinct—shalt have One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. No power in death can tear our names apart, As none in life could rend thee from my heart. Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate To be entwined for ever—but too late!

MAZEPPA'S RIDE.

[From mazeppa.)

quot;Bring forth the horse!'—the horse was brought; In truth, he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs ; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught.

With spur and bridle undefiled—

'Twas but a day he had been caught. And snorting, with erected mane,

And struggling fiercely, but in vain,

In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-bom was led:

They bound me on, that menial throng.

Upon his back with many a thong.

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Then looged him with a sudden lash— Away!—away!—and on we dash! —

Torrents less rapid and less rash.

'Away!—away!—My breath was gone—

I saw not where he hurried on:

'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,

And on he foam'd—away!—away!—

The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes,

Was the wild shout of savage laughter,

Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout:

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And, writhing half my form about,

Howl'd back my cnrse; but 'midst the thread. The thunder of my courser's speed.

Perchance they did not hear nor heed: It vexes me—for I would fain Have paid their insult back again.

I paid it well in after days;

There is not of that castle-gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass,

Save what grows on a ridge of wall.

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; And many a time ye there might pass, Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:

I saw its turrets in a blaze,

Their crackling battlements all cleft.

And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof. Whose thickness was not vengeance-próof.

They little thought that day of pain.

When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash They bade me to destruction dash.

That one day I should come again,

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With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride.

They play'd me then a bitter prank,

When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I play'd them one as frank— For time at last sets all things even— And if we do but watch the hour,

There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.

'Away! away, my steed and I,

Upon the pinions of the wind.

All human dwellings left behind;

We sped like meteors through the sky. When with its crackling sound the night Is checker'd with the northern light: Town—village—none were on our track.

But a wild plain of far extent. And bounded by a forest black;

And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some strong hold. Against the Tartars built of old, v No trace of man. The year before A Turkish army had march'd o'er; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod. The verdure flies the bloody sod:—

The sky was dull, and dim, and grey. And a low breeze crept moaning by— I could have answer'd with a sigh— But fast we fled, away, away—

And I could neither sigh nor pray;

And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane; But, snorting still with rage and fear. He flew upon his far career:

At times I almost thought, indeed,

He must have slacken'd in his speed; But no—my bound and slender frame

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Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became:

Each motion which I made to free My swoln limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright:

I tried my voice,—'twas faint and low. But yet he swerved as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang:

Meantime my cords were wet with gore, Which oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fiercer far than flame.

'We near'd the wild wood—'twas so wide,

I saw no bounds on either side;

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees,

That bent not to the roughest breeze

Which howls down from Siberia's waste,

And strips the forest in its haste,—

But these were few, and far between,

Set thick with shrubs more young and green,

Luxuriant with their annual leaves,

Ere strown by those autumnal eves

That nip the forest's foliage dead,

Discolour'd with a lifeless red,

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore

Upon the slain when battle's o'er,

And some long winter's night hath shed

Its frosts o'er every tombless head,

So cold and stark the raven's beak

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek:

'Twas a wild waste of underwood,

And here and there a chestnut stood.

The strong oak, and the hardy pine;

But far apart—and well it were,

Or else a different lot were mine—

The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs; and I found strength to bear My wounds, already gcarr'd with cold—

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My bonds forbade to loose my hold. We rustled througb the leaves like wind,

Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; By night I heard them on the track,

Their troop came hard upon our back.

With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they follow'd on,

Nor left us with the morning sun;

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At day-break winding through the wood. And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing rustling step repeat.

Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword.

At least to die amidst the horde, And perish—if it must be so—

At bay, destroying many a foe!

When first my courser's race begun,

I wish'd the goal already won.

But now I doubted strength and speed:

Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast,

Than through the forest-paths he pass'd— Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All-furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or, fiercer still,

A woman piqued—who has her will.

'The wood was pasa'd; 'twas more than noon. But chill the air, although in June;

Or , it might be, my veins ran cold— Prolong'd endurance tames the bold;

And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as a wintry stream.

And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er:

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And what with fury, fear, and-wrath. The tortures which beset my path.

Cold , hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,

Thus bound in nature's nakedness;

Sprung from a race whose rising blood , When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. And trodden hard upon: is like The rattle-snake's, in act to strike,—

What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk? The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, I seem'd to sink upon the ground; But err'd, for I was fastly bound.

My heart tura'd sick, my brain grew sore. And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: The skies spun like a mighty wheel; 1 saw the trees like drunkards reel,

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,. Which saw no farther: he who dies Can die no more than then I died. O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,

I felt the blackness come and go,

And strove to wake; but could not make My senses climb up from below:

I felt as on a plank at sea.

When all the waves that dash o'er thee, At the same time upheave and whelm, And hurl thee towards a desert realm. My undulating life was as The fancied lights that flitting pass Onr shut eyes in deep midnight, when Fever begins upon the brain;

But soon it pass'd, with little pain.

But a confusion worse than such:

I own that I should deem it much, Dying, to feel the same again;

And yet I do suppose we must Feel far more ere we turn to dust; No matter; I have bared my brow Full in Death's face—before—and now.

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'My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold,

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse Life re-assumed its lingering hold,

And throb by throb: till grown a pang Which for a moment would convulse, My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang.

My heart began once more to thrill; My sight return'd, though_ dim; alas! And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. Methought the dash of waves was nigh;

There was a gleam too of the sky,

Studded with stars;—it is no dream;

The wild horse swims the wilder stream! The bright broad river's gushing tide Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide. And we are half-way, struggling o'er To yon unknown and silent shore.

The waters broke my hollow trance.

And with a temporary strength

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance!

We reach the slippery shore at length,

A haven I but little prized.

For all behind was dark and drear,

And all before was night and fear.

How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay,

I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew.

'With glossy skin, and dripping mane,

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain

Up the repelling bank.

We gain the top: a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward, seems,

Like precipices in our dreams,

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To stretch beyond the sight;

And here and there a speck of white,

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light,

As rose the moon upon my sight.

But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate;

No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star;

Not even an ignis-fatuns rose To make him merry with my woes:

That very cheat had cheer'd me then! Although detected, welcome still. Reminding me, through every ill,

Of the abodes of men.

'Onward we went—but slack and slow;

His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low.

All feebly foaming went.

A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour;

But useless all to me.

His new-born tameness nought avail'd— My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd.

Perchance, had they been free.

With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied—

But still it was in vain;

My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, ,

Which but prolong'd their pain: The dizzy race seem'd almost done. Although no goal was nearly won:

Some streaks announced the coming sun —

How slow, alas! he came!

Methought that mist of dawning grey Would never dapple into day;

How heavily it roll'd away—

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Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars, And flll'd the earth, from hia deep throne, quot;With lonely lustre, all his own.

THE PEISONEE. OF CHILLOW.

My hair is grey, but not -with years, Nor grew it white In a single night As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil.

But rusted with a vile repose,

For they have been a dungeon's spoil. And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'd—forbidden fare ; But this was for my father's faith I suffer'd chains and courted death:

That father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake;

And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place. We were seven—who now are one.

Six in youth and one in age,

Finish'd as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;

One in fire, and two in field,

Their belief with blood have seal'd:

Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied:—

Three were in a dungeon cast.

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould , In Chillon's dungeons deep and old.

There are seven columns massy and grey. Dim with a dull iuiprison'd ray.

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A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left: Creeping o'er the floor so damp,

Like a marsh's meteor lamp:

And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing!

For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years—I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side.

They chain'd us each to a column stone, And we were three—yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face. But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight: And thus together—yet apart,

Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart; 'T was still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth. To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold— Our voices took a dreary tone.

An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound—not full and free As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy— but to me They never sounded like our own.

I was the eldest of the three,

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358

And to uphold and cheer the rest T ought to do—and did—my hest— And each did well in his degree.

The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him—with eyes as blue as heaven, For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest;

For he was beautiful as day—

(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles being free)—

A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone,

Its sleepless summer of long light. The snow-clad offspring of the sun:

And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay.

With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,

But form'd to combat with his kind ;

Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank

With joy:—but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither'd with their clank,

I saw it silently decline—

And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear.

He was a hunter of the hills,

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf. And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:

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A thousand feet in cleptli below Its massy waters meet and flow;

Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement,

Which round about the wave inthralls A double dungeon wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day;

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd: And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were And wanton in the happy sky;

And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt its shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.

I said my nearer brother pined,

I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain-goat Was changed for water from the moat. Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisten'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb : My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side: But why delay the truth?—he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead.—

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Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died—and they unlock'd his chain, And sooop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine—it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest.

I might have spared my idle prayer— They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant.

Such murder's fitting monument!

But he, the favourite and the flower,

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race , His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired—

He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away.

Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:—

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion; I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with his dread:

But these were horrors—this was woe Unmix'd with such—but sure and slow:

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He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender—kiud. And grieved for those lie left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb,

Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray—

An eye of most transparent light,

That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur—not A groan o'er his untimely lot,—

A little talk of better days,

A little hope my own to raise,

For I was sunk iu silence- lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness,

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listen'd, but I could not hear—

I call'd, for I was wild with fear;

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished;

I call'd, and thought I heard a soand— I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him:—I found him not, I only stirr'd in this black spot,

7 only lived—1 only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last—the sole—the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink.

Which bound me to my failing race. Was broken in this fatal place.

One on the earth, and one beneath— My brothers—both had ceased to breathe: I took that hand which lay so still,

Alas! my own was full as chill;

I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive —

A frantic feeling, when w know

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That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die,

I had no earthly hope —hut faith , And that forbade a selfish death.

What next befell me then and there

I know not well—I never knew—

First came the loss of light, and air,

And then of darkness too:

I had no thought, no feeling—none — Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist;

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, It was not night—it was not day.

It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight. But vacancy absorbing space,

And fixedness —without a place;

There were no stars—no earth—no time — No check—no change—no good—no crime-But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness.

Blind , boundless, mute , and motionless!

A light broke in upon my brain,—

It was the carol of a bird;

It ceased, and then it came again,

The sweetest song ear ever heard; And mine was thankful, till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise,

And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery:

But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track,

I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before;

I saw the glimmer of the sun

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Creeping as it before had clone,

But througli the crevice where it came

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame,

And tamer than upon the tree;

A lovely bird, with azure wings,

And song that said a thousand things, And seem'd to say them all for me! I never saw its like before,

I ne'er shall see its likeness more:

It seem'd like me to want a mate.

But was not half so desolate,

And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again,

And cheering from my dungeon's brink. Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free.

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity.

Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in winged guise,

A visitant from Paradise;

For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile— I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew.

And then 'twas mortal—well I knew;

For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone,— Lone—as the corse within its shroud, Lone—as a solitary cloud,

A single cloud on a sunny day.

While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere.

That hath no business to appear

When skies are blue, and earth is gay.

A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate,

I know not what had made them so,

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364

They were inured to sights of woe,

But so it was;—my broken cliaiu With links unfasten'd did remain,

And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side,

And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part;

And round the pillars one by one. Returning where my walk begun,

Avoiding only, as I trod.

My brothers' graves without a sod;

For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed. My breath came gaspingly and thick. And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick.

I made a footing in the wall,—

It was not therefrom to escape,

For I had buried one and all

Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me:

No child—no sire—no kin had I, No partner in my misery;

I thought of this, and I was glad. For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye.

I saw them -and they were the same. They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high—their wide long lake below. And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; I saw the white-wall'd distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down;

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And then there was a little isle,

Which in my very face did smile,

The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seem'd no more,

Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,

But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing,

And on it there were young flowers growing,

Of gentle breath and hue.

The fish swam by the castle wall.

And they seem'd joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast,

Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly,

And then new tears came in my eye.

And I felt troubled—and would fain I had not left my recent chain;

And when I did descend again.

The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load;

It was as in a new-dug grave.

Closing o'er one we sought to save,— And yet my glance, too much oppress'd. Had almost need of such a rest.

It might be months, or years, or days,

I kept no count—1 took no note,

I had no hope my eyes to raise.

And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free,

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where : It was at length the same to me,

Fetter'd or fetterless to be,

I learn'd to love despair:

And thus when they appear'd at last,

And all my bonds aside were cast.

These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own!

And half I felt as they were come

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To tear me from a second tome.

With spiders I had friendship made, And wateh'd them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice hy moonlight play. And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill —yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell— My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:—even 1 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

HEBREW MELODIES.

she walks in beauty.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less.

Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloqusnt, The smiles that win, the tints that'glow.

But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

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ii' that high would.

If that high world, •«■liich lies beyond

Ouv own, surviving Love endears;

If there the cherish'd heart be fond,

The eye the same, except in tears — How welcome those untrodden spheres!

How sweet this very hour to die!

To soar from earth, and find all fears Lost in thy Light—Eternity!

It must be so; 'tis not for self

That we so tremble on the brink, And, striving to o'erleap the gulf,

Yet cling to Being's severing link.

Oh! in that future let ua think

To hold each heart the heart that shares. With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!

the wild gazelle.

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills

Exulting yet may bound,

And drink from all the living rills

That gush on holy ground;

Its airy step and glorious eye May glance in tameless transport by:—

A step as fleet, an eye more bright.

Hath Judah witness'd there;

And o'er her scenes of lost delight

Inhabitants more fair.

The cedars wave on Lebanon,

But Judah's statelier maids are gone!

More blest each palm that shades those plains

Than Israel's scatter'd race;

For, taking root, it there remains

In solitary grace:

It cannot quit its place of birth,

It will not live in other earth.

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But we must wander witheringly,

In other lands to die;

And where our fathers' ashes be,

Our own may never lie:

Our temple hath not left a stone,

And Mockery sits on Salem's throne.

on Jordan's banks.

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep— Yet there—even there—O God! thy thunders'sleep :

There—where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone! There—where thy shadow to thy people shone! Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: Thyself—none living see and not expire!

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear;

Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear. How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod! How long thy temple worshipless, O God!

oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom.

Oil! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream , And lingering pause and lightly tread;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress:

Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?

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And thou—-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

bt the rivers of babylon quot;we sat down and wept.

We sat down and wept by the waters Of Babel, and thought of the day

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,

Made Salem's high places his prey;

And ye, O her desolate daughters!

Were scatter'd all weeping away.

While sadly we gazed on the river Which roll'd on in freedom below,

They demanded the song; but, oh never That triumph the stranger shall know!

May this right hand be wither'd for ever,

Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

On the willow that harp ia suspended.

Oh Salem! its sound should be free;

And the hour when thy glories were ended But left me that token of thee:

And ne'er shall its oft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me!

the dectrüction of sennacherib.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts where gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown. That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved , and for ever grew still!

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And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-heating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord I

FAEE THEE WELL.

Faee thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well:

Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain.

While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!

Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee— Thoagh it smile upon the blow.

Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me.

Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me. To inflict a cureless wound?

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Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay.

But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth—

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;

And the undying thought which paineth Is—that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead;

Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather.

When our child's first accents flow ,

Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'

Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee. When her lip to thine is press'd.

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see,

Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know;

All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow.

Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done—all words are idle—

Words from me are vainer still;

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But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!—thus disunited,

Tom from every nearer tie,

Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted _TMore than this I scarce can die.

THE DREAM.

Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world,. A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils. They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time.

And look like heralds of eternity; •

They pass like spirits of the past,—they speak Like sibyls of the future;] they have power— The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not—what _uthey.[will And shake us with the vision that's gone by. The dread of vanish'd shadows—Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind?—The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream'd Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years. And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,

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Oreen and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;—the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd.

Not by the sport of nature, but of man:

These two a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing—the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young—yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but hia heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth— And that was shining on him; he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away;

He had no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice;—he did not speak to her. But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, Which colour'd all his objects:—he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life,— The ocean to the river of his thoughts,

quot;Which terminated all: upon a tone,

A touch of hera, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother—but no more; 'twas much. For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honour'd race.—It was a name

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Which, pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?

Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved

Another; even now she loved another,

And on the summit of that hill she stood

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

There was an ancient mansion, and before

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:

Within an antique Oratory stood

The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone.

And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced

Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere

With a convulsion—then arose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear

What he had written, but he shed no tears,

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow

Into a kind of quiet: as he paused.

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there;

She was serene and smiling then, and yet

She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew.

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw

That he was wretched,—but she saw not all.

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp

He took her hand; a moment o'er his face

A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps

Eetired, but not as bidding her adieu,

For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd

From out the massy gate of that old Hall,

And mounting on his steed he went his way;

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home,

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And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer;

There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness,

Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while.

While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky. So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,

That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better:—in her home, A thousand leagues from his, —her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,

Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!

Upon her face there was the tint of grief. The settled shadow of an inward strife,

And an unquiet drooping of the eye.

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

What could her grief be?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.

What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved , Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd:—I saw him stand

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376

Before an altar—with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made ,

The starlight of hia boyhood;—as he stood

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock

That in the antique Oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude; and then—

As in that hour—a moment o'er his face

The tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced,—and then it faded as it came,

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words;

And all things reel'd around him; he could see

Not that which was, nor that which should have beem

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,

And the remember'd chambers, and the place

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,

All things pertaining to that place and hour,

And her who was his destiny, came back

And thrust themselves between him and the light:

What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes—

They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things;

And forms, impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

What is it but the telescope of truth?

Which strips the distance of its fantasies,

And brings life near in utter nakedness,

Making the cold reality too real!

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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,

The beings which surrounded him were gone,

Or were at war with him; he was a mark

For blight and desolation, compass'd round

With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd

In all which was served up to him, until,

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,

He fed on poisons, and they had no power.

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived

Through that which had been death to many men,

And made him friends of mountains; with the stars

And the quick Spirit of the Universe

He held his dialogues; and they did teach

To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was open'd wide,

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd

A marvel and a secret—Be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures shoulti be thus traced out Almost like a reality—the one To end in madness—both in misery!

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest—and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass—Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break;

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But when the unconscious infant emiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it,—and repress'd my sighs

Its father in its face to see;

But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art hlest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side.

My heart in all,—save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime— We met,—and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face.

Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake; Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? My foolish heart! be still, or break.

MAID OP ATHENS, ERE WE PABT.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast.

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Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow before I go,

Zoi)) fiov, lt;ra( ayxxü.

By those tresses unconfined,

quot;Woo'd by each jEgean wind;

By those lids, whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Zdy lieu, lt;ru; iyxxS.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe,

zwif noO, lt;tks ayairü.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:

Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No!

Zuy fzov, (rxs aiyocTru.

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.

Though the day of my destiny's over.

And the star of my fate hath declined. Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted.

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling. The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine:

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380

And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,

If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain—it shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn— They may torture, but shall not subdue me— 'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake.

Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me.

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,— Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me.

Though parted, it was not to fly.

Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it.

Nor the war of the many with one—

If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun:

And if dearly that error hath cosi. .-ne,

And more than I once could foresee,

I have found that, whatever it lost me.

It could not deprive me of thee.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd.

Thus much I at least may recall,

It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing.

In the wide waste there still is a tree.

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

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381

THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852).

LINES WBITTEN AT THE COHOS, OB FALLS OP THE MOHAWK RIVER.

Fbok rise of morn till set of sun

I've seen the mighty Mohawk rnn;

And as I mark'd the -woods of pine

Along his mirror darkly shine,

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass

Before the wizard's midnight glass;

And as I view'd the hurrying pace

With which he ran his turbid race,

Rushing, alike untir'd and wild.

Through shades that frown'd and flowers that smil'd _r

Flying by every green recess

That woo'd him to its calm caress,

Tet, sometimes turning with the wind.

As if to leave one look behind,—

Oft have I thoughi, and thinking sigh'd,

How like to thee, thou restless tide.

May be the lot, the life of him

Who roams along the water's brim;

Through what alternate wastes of woe

And flowers of joy my path may go;

How many a shelter'd, calm retreat

May woo the while my weary feet.

While still pursuing, still unblest,

I wander on, nor dare to rest;

But, urgent as the doom that calls

Thy water to its destin'd falls,

I feel the world's bewildering force

Hurry my heart's devoted course

From lapse to lapse, till life be done.

And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make,

As onward thus my course I take;—

Oh, be my falls as bright as thine!

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May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim,

We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row , brothers, row! the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Ottawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs, Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast. The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

IRISH MELODIES.

go whebe glory waits thee,

Go where glory waits thee. But while fame elates thee.

Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me.

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oqrgt;

oo«gt;

Other arms may press thee,

Dearer friends caress thee,

All the joys that bless thee.

Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest.

And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.

Think, when home returning.

Bright we've seen it burning.

Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes.

When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses.

Once so lov'd by thee,

Think of her who wove them.

Her who made thee love them.

Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,

Autumn leaves are lying.

Oh! then remember me.

And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! still remember me.

Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling,

To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;

Then let memory bring thee Strains I us'd to sing thee,—

Oh! then remember me.

oh! bebaihe not his name.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid:

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884

Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed.

As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps. Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls. Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

when he who adores thee.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind.

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

Every thought of my reason was thine:

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see:

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

the harp that once trough tara^ halls.

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed.

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.—

So sleeps the pride of former days.

So glory's thrill is o'er.

And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

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Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks.

To show that still she lives.

high and rakk we11e the gems she wore.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

' Lady! dost thou not fear to stray.

So lone and lovely through this bleak way?

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold.

As not to be tempted by women or gold?'

' Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,

No son of Erin will offer me harm:—

For though they love woman and golden store, Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!'

On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle:

And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride.

believe me, if ALL those endeaeinamp; young charms.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on bo fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms.

Like fairy-gifts fading away.

Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will.

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own.

And thy cheelss unprofan'd by a tear.

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

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To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,

But as truly lores on to the close.

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets. The same look which she tnm'd when he rose.

love's young dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night quot;Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

The' the bard to purer fame may soar.

When wild youth's past;

Tho' he wins the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last;

He'll never meet A joy so sweet.

In all his noon of fame.

As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one lov'd name.

No,—that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot

Which first love trae'd;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.

'Twas odour fled As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged dream;

'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again

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On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

one bümpee at pahtrng.

One bumper at parting!—tho' many-

Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure hath in it.

Is always so slow to cbme forth,

That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth. But come,—may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

As onward we journey, how pleasant

To pause and inhabit a while T^iose few sunny spots, like the present.

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile! Bat Time like a pitiless master,

Cries ' Onward!' and spurs the gay hours Ah, never doth Time travel faster.

Than when his way lies among flowers. But come—may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up: They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

quot;We saw how the sun look'd in sinking. The waters beneath him how bright; And now, let our farewell of drinking

Resemble that farewell of light.

You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim— So, fill up, let's shine at our parting.

In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure

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Of moments like this be made up, 'Twas 130111 on the bosom of Pleasure, It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

'tis the last kose of summek.

Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone:

No flower of her kindred.

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one I

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping.

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed.

Where thy mates of the garden . Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay.

And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie wither'd,.

And fond ones are flown.

Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

the young may moon.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Moma's grove,

quot;When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear.

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'Tis never too late for delight, my dear!

And the beat of all ways To lengthen our days,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star.

More glorious far.

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear. The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear.

Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light.

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

the miksikel-boy.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.—

'Land of song!' said the warrior-bard,

'Tho' all the world betrays thee,

' One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, ' One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, 'No chains shall sully thee.

Thou soul of love and bravery!

-■Thy songs were made for the pure and free. They shall never sound in slavery.'

has sorrow thy young days shaded.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded.

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That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear?— Then, child of misfortune, come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender.

Been like our Lagenian mine,

Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shine?—

But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allur'd by the gleam that shone, Ahl false as the dream of the sleeper,. Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story.

That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman's glittering glory—

Has hope been that bird to thee? On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display. And, when nearest and most inviting. Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted _r

When sorrow itself looked bright; If thus the fair hope hath cheated.

That led thee along so light;

If thus the cold world now wither

Each feeling that once was dear:— Come, child of misfortune, come hither_rI'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

come o'er the sea.

Come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows i Seasons may roll,

But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

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391

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

quot;lis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden with me ,

Come where the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul _tBums the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea Made for the Free;

Land for courts and chains alone?

Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves.

Love and Liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us —

Then come o'er the sea.

Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;

Seasons may roll.

But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

COME, KEST IN III IS BOSOM.

Coke , rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

The' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that 1 love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,—

Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

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392

i sa-w peom the beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining. The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our .life's early promise.

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;

Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us. And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;—

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning.

When passion first wak'd a new light thro' his frame.

And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning. Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

SACRED SONGS.

the bikd, let loose.

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots through air and light.

Above all low delay.

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care

And stain of passion free,

Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,

To hold my coarse to Thee!

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No sin to cloud, nor lure to stay

My Soul, as home she springs;— Thy Sunshine on her joyful way. Thy Freedom in her wings !

this world is all a fleeting show.

This world is all a fleeting show.

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,

As fading hues of Even;

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's blootn, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb— There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day.

From wave to wave we're driven , And Fancy's flash, and Ueason's ray,

Serve but to light the troubled way— There's nothing calm but Heaven!

oh thott who dry'st the mournek's tear.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear! How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;

And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw

Their fragrance from the wounded part. Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw

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A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not thy Wing of Love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee,, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day!

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

{From lalla hooktl).

One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate;

And as she listened to the Springs

Of Life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings

Though the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place!

'How happy,' exclaim'd this child of air. Are the holy Spirits who wander there,

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea_rAnd the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all I

Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere,

With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,

And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray, Yet—oh! 'tis only the Blest can say

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

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Go, wing thy flight from star to star,

From world to luminious world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years. One minute of Heaven is worth them all!'

The glorious Angel, who was keeping The gates of Light, beheld her weeping; And, as he nearer drew and liaten'd To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the Blue flow'r, which—Bramins say— Blooms nowhere but in Paradise!

'Nymph of a fair but erring line!'

Gently he said—' One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

The Peri yet may he forgiven Who brings to this Eternal gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven! Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin—

'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in!'

Rapidly, as comets run To th'embraces of the Sun:—

Fleeter than the starry brands,

Flung at night from angel hands At those dark and daring sprites.

Who would climb th' empyreal heights,

Down the blue vault the Peri flies,

And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heav'n?—'I know The wealth,' she cries, 'of every urn, In which ummmber'd rubies bum,

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;—

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I know where the Isles of Perfume are

Many a fathom down in the sea,

To the south of sun bright Araby;—

I know too where the Genii hid

The jewell'd cup of their King Jamshid,

With Life's elixir sparkling high—

But gifts like these are not for the sky.

Where was there ever a gem that shone

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne;

And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be

In the boundless deep of Eternity?'

While thus she mus'd her pinions fanu'd The air of that sweet Indian land,

Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks and amber beds;

Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;

Whose rivulets are like rich brides,

Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; ■

quot;Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri's Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood—the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers.

Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy Pagoda and thy pillar'd shades— Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones. Thy Monarch» and their thousand Thrones?

'Tis he of Gazna—fierce in wrath He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.—

His blood-hounds he adorns with gems, Tom from the violated necks

Of many a young and lov'd Sultana;

Maidens, within their pure Zenana,

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397

Priests in the very fane he slaughters,

And choaks up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the Peri turns her gaze ,

And, through the war-field's bloody haze Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

Alone, beside his native river,—

The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quiver.

'Live,' said the Conqueror, 'live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear!'

Silent that youthful warrior stood—

Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood.

Then sent his last remaining dart,

For answer, to th' Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well:

The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!—

Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past,

Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last—

Last glorious drop his heart had shed.

Before its free-born spirit fled!

'Be this,' she cried, as she wing'd herjflight, 'My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.

Though foul are the drops that oft distil

On the field of warfare, blood like this.

For Liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill,

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!

Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause?quot;

' Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave

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The gift into his radiant hand,

'Sweet is our welcome of the Brave

Who die thus for their native Land.— But see—alas!—the crystal bar Of Eden moves not—holier far Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,

That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains, Far to the South, the Peri lighted;

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide,—whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth,

Deep in those solitary woods.

Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, And hail the new-born Giant's smile!

Thence over Egypt's palmy groves.

Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, The exil'd Spirit sighing roves;

And now hangs listening to the doves In warm Rosetta's vale—now loves

To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white Pelicans that break The azure calm of Moeris' Lake.

'Twas a fair scene- a Land more bright

Never did mortal eye behold!

Who could have thought, that saw this night

Those valleys, and their fruits of gold Basking in Heav'n's serenest light;—

Those groups of lovely date-trees bending

Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,

Like youthful maids, when sleep descending

Warns them to their silken beds;—

Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake That they may rise more fresh and bright. When their beloved Sun's awake;—

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Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lap-wing's cry is heard,

Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam,)

Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting

Upon a column motionless And glittering, like an Idol bird!—

Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there, Amid those scenes so still and fair.

The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast.

More mortal far than ever came From the red Desert's sands of flame;

So quick, that every living thing Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,

Like plants, where the Simoom hath past, At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow.

Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now.

And ne'er will feel that sun again!

And oh ! to see th'unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps—

The very vultures turn away.

And sicken at so foul a prey!

Only the fierce hyEena stalks Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies-

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets!

' Poor race of men!' said the pitying Spirit,

'Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall-Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the serpent is over them all!' She wept—the air grew pure and clear

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Around her, as the bright drops ran: For there's a magic in each tear,

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,

Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Where wantoning together, free.

Like age at play with infancy—

Beneath that fresh and springing bower.

Close by the Lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour.

Had thither stol'n to die alone.

One who in life, where'er he mov'd

Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,

Dies here unseen, unwept by any!

None to watch near him—none to slake

The fire that in his bosom lies.

With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake.

Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day.

To speak the last, the parting word. Which, when all other sounds decay.

Is still like distant music heard;—

That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world, when all is o'er.

Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark,

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death—

That she, whom he for years had known. And lov'd, and might have call'd his own,

Was save from this foul midnight's breath; Safe in her father's princely halls.

Where the cool air from fountain falls Freshly perfum'd by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land,

Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

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But see,—who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek.

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,

With rosy gifts upon her cheek?

Tis she—far off, through moonlight dim ,

He knew his own betrothed bride.

She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!—

Her arms are round her lover now.

His livid cheeks to hers she presses.

And dips, to bind his burning brow.

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Whose gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden's infant cherubim!

And now he yields—now turns away,

Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer'd lips alone—

Those lips that, then so fearless grown ,

Never until that instant came Near his unask'd or without shame.

' Oh I let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee. And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!

There—drink my tears, while yet they fall,—

Would that my bosom's blood were balm,

And, well thou knowest, I'd shed it all.

To give thy brow one minute's calm.

Nay, turn not from me that dear face —

Am I not thine—thy own lov'd bride—

The one, the chosen one, whose place

In life or death is by thy side!

Think'st thou that she, whose only light

In this dim world, from thee hath shone.

Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

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That must be hers, when thou art gone?

That I can live, and let thee go,

quot;Who art my life itself?—No, no—

When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too!

Then turn to me, my own love, turn.

Before like thee I fade and burn;

Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there!'

She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp In charnel airs or cavern-damp.

So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes. One struggle—and his pain is past—

Her lover is no longer living!

One kiss the maiden gives, one last.

Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

'Sleep,' said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,

As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast—

'Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,

In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd Th'enchanted pile of that lonely bird,

Who sings at the last his own death lay,

And in music and perfume dies away!'

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place. And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed Such lustre o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves in odour sleeping;—

While that benevolent Peri beam'd Like their good angel, calmly keeping Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken.

But mom is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above.

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Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate

The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright spirit at the gate

Smil'd as she gave that offering in; And she already hears the trees

Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the throne of Alia swells; And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake.

Upon whose banks admitted Souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take

But, ah! even Peris' hopes are vain— Again the Fates forbade, again Th'immortal barrier clos'd—'Not yet,' The Angel said as, with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory— 'True was the maiden, and her story Written in light o'er Alla's head, By seraph eyes shall long be read. But, Peri, see—the crystal bar Of Eden moves not—holier far Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee.'

Now, upon Syria's land of roses Softly the light of Eve reposes,

And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon;

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet.

While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who look'd from upper air O'er all th'enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow. The life, the sparkling from below!

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Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks,

More golden where the sun-light falls; Gay lizards, glittering off the walls Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light;— And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,

quot;With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm West,—as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span Th'unclouded skies of Peristan!

And then the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine.

Banquettting through the flowery Tales:— And Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. And woods so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless Peri! Her soul is sad—her wings are weary— Joyless she sees the Sun look down On that great Temple, once his own. Whose lonely columns stand sublime,

Flinging their shadows from on high. Like dials, which the wizard. Time, Had rais'd to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd

Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,

Some amulet of gems, anneal'd In upper fires, some tablet seal'd With the great name of Solomon,

Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes, May teach her where, beneath, the moon,. In earth or ocean lies the boon,

The charm that can restore so soon An erring Spirit to the skies!

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Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither Still laughs the radiant eye of Heav'n, Nor have the golden bowers of Eden In the rich West begun to wither;—

When o'er the vale of Balbec winging

Slowly, she sees a child at play,

Among the rosy wild flowers singing,

As rosy and as wild as they;

Chasing, with eager hands and eyes. The beautiful blue-damsel flies That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, Like winged flowers or flying gems:— And, near the boy, who tir'd with play Now nestling 'mid the roses lay.

She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.

Then swift his haggard brow he tum'd

To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd Upon a brow more fierce than that,— Sullenly fierce—a mixture dire.

Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire! In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd— Oaths broken—and the threshold stain'd With blood of guests!—there written, all. Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen. Ere Mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening time Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay. Watching the rosy infant's play;—

Though still, whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze

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As torches, that have burnt all night Through acme impure and godless rite_rEncounter morning's glorious rays.

Bnt hark! the vesper call to prayer,

As slow the orb of day-light sets,

Is rising sweetly on the air

From Syria's thousand minarets!

The boy has started from the bed Of flowers where he had laid his head. And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,, Lisping th'eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth. And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies.

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

Just lighted on that flowery plain. And seeking for its home again!

Oh 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that child— A scene, which might have well beguil'd Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man Reclining there—while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife.

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace! 'There was a time,' he said in mild. Heart-humbled tones—'thou blessed child! 'When young and haply pure as thou, I look'd and pray'd like thee—but now—■' He hung his head—each nobler aim,

And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er hira, and he wept—he wept t

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

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In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

' There's a dropsaid the Peri, 'that down from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,

So halmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour That drop descends contagion dies.

And health re-animates earth and skies!—

Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall?

Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!'

And now—behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer,

While the same sun-beam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one.

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set.

While on their knees they linger'd yet.

There fell a light more lovely far Than over came from sun or star,

Upon the tear that, warm and meek ,

Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek;

To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam —

But well th'enraptur'd Peri knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near!

'•Toy, joy for ever! my task is done—

The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!

Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am —

To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

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As torches, that have burnt all night Through some impure and godless rite_rEncounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer, As slow the orb of day-light sets, Is rising sweetly on the air

From Syria's thousand minarets!

The boy has started from the bed Of flowers where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,. Lisping th'eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth. And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

Just lighted on that flowery plain. And seeking for its home again!

Oh 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that child-A scene, which might have well beguil'd Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man Reclining there—while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife.

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life. Nor found one sunny resting place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace 'There was a time,' he said in mild, Heart-humbled tones—'thou blessed child! ' When young and haply pure as thou, I look'd and pray'd like thee—but now—' He hung his head—each nobler aim,

And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

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407

In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

' There's a dropsaid the Peri, 'that down from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,

So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour That drop descends contagion dies,

And health re-animates earth and skies!—

Oh, is it not thus, thon man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall?

Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!'

And now—behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer,

While the same sun-beam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set.

While on their knees they linger'd yet.

There fell a light more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star.

Upon the tear that, warm and meek ,

Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek;

To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam —

But well th'enraptur'd Peri knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near!

'Joy, joy for ever! my task is done—

The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!

Oh! am I not happy? I am , I am —

To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

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And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!

Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die.

Passing away like a lover's sigh;—

My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,

Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

Farewell ye vanishing flowers, that shone

In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief; — Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown , To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne, Whose flowers heave a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done—

The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!'

PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822).

FOREST SCENERY.

(From alastor, ob, the spirit op solitude).

A wandering stream of wind Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail, And, lo! with gentle motion, between banks Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream.

Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark!

The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar.

With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. Where the embowering trees recede, and leave A little space of green expanse, the cove Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave Of the boat's motion marr'd their pensive task.

Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind. Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay Had e'er disturb'd before. The Poet long'd To deck with their bright hues his wither'd hair.

But on his heart its solitude return'd,

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And he forebore. Not the strong impulse hid

In those flash'd cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame

Had yet perform'd its ministry: it hung

Upon his life, as lightning ia a cloud

Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods

Of night close over it.

The noonday sun Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,

Scoop'd in the dark base of those aëry rocks Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever. The meeting boughs and implicated leaves']

Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led By love, or dream . or god, or mightier Death,

He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank, Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark And dark the shades accumulate.—The oak,

Expanding its immense and knotty arms Embraces the light beech. The pyramids Of the tall ce'dar overarching, frame Most solemn domes within, and far below,

Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,

The ash and the acacia floating hang Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,

Starr'd with ten thousand blossoms, flow around The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes,

With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,

Fold their beams.round the hearts of those that love. These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs Uniting their close union; the woven leaves Make net-work of the dark blue light of day,

And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells,

Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,

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A soul-dissolving odour, to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell, Silence and Twillight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades,

Like vaporous shapes half seen; beyond, a well, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave. Images all the woven boughs above.

And each depending leaf, and every speck Of azure sky, darting between their chasms ; Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves Its portraiture, but some inconstant star Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair. Or, painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon. Or gorgeous insect, floating motionless.

Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.

Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld

Their own wan light through the reflected lines

Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth

Of that still fountain; as the human heart,

Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,

Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard

The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung

Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel

An unaccustom'd presence, and the sound

Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs

Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seem'd

To stand beside him—clothed in no bright robes

Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,

Borrow'd from aught the visible world affords

Of grace, or majesty, or mystery;—

But, undulating woods, and silent well,

And reaping rivulet, and evening gloom

Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming

Held commune with him, as if he and it

Were all that was,—only....when his regard

Was raised by intense pensiveness.... two eyes,

Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought,

And seemed with their serene and azure smiles

To beckon him.

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Obedient to the light That shone -within his soul, he went, pursuing The windings of the dell.—The rivulet quot;Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell Among the moss with hollow harmony-Dark and profound. Now on the polish'd stones It danced, like childhood laughing as it went;

Then through the plain in tranquil wandering crept. Reflected every herb and drooping bud That overhung its quietness.O stream!

Whose source is inaccessibly profound,

quot;Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?

Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness, Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs. Thy searchless fountain and invisible course Have each their type in me: and the wide sky, And measureless ocean may declare as soon What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud , Contains thy waters, as the universe Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste 1' the passing wind!'

Beside the grassy shore Of the small stream he went; he did impress •On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one Roused by some joyons madness from the couch Of fever, he did move; yet, not like him,

Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame Of his frail exultation shall be spent,

He must descend. quot;With rapid steps he went Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now The forest's solemn canopies were changed For the uniform and lightsome evening sky.

Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemm'd The struggling brook: tall spires of windlestrae Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope,

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And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines,

Branchless and blasted, clench'd with grasping roots

The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,

Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,

The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin

And white; and where irradiate dewy eyes

Had shone, gleam stony orbs:—so from his steps

Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade

Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds

And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued

The stream, with a larger volume now

Rolled through the labyrinthine dell, and there

Fretted a path through its descending curves

With its wintry speed. On every side now rose

Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms,

Lifted their black and barren pinnacles

In the light of evening, and its precipice

Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,

'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs , and yawning caves,

Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues

To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands

Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks.

And seems, with its accumulated crags.

To overhang the world: for wide expand

Beneath the wan stars and descending moon

Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams ,

Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom

Of leaden-colour'd even, and fiery hills

Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge

Of the remote horizon. The near scene.

In naked and severe simplicity.

Made contrast with the universe. A pine.

Rock-rooted, stretch'd athwart the vacancy

Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast

Yielding one only response, at each pause.

In moat familiar cadence, with the howl

The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams

Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river,

Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path,

Fell into that immeasurable void.

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Scattering its waters to the passing winds.

Yet the gray precipice, and solemn pine And torrent, were not all; one silent nook Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain. Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,

It overlooked in its serenity

The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars.

It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile

Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped

The fissured stones with its entwining arms.

And did embower with leaves for evtr green,

And berries dark, the smooth and even space

Of its inviolated floor, and here

The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore.

In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose decay.

Red, yellow, or etherially pale.

Rivals the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt

Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach

The winds to love tranquillity.

TO MAKY.

1KTKODUCTION TO THE REVOLT OF ISLAM.

So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,

And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;

As to his Queen some victor Enigbt of Faëry,

Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;

Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become

A star among the stars of mortal night,

If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,

Its doubtful promise thas I would unite

With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour, Is ended,—and the fruit is at thy feet!

No longer where the woods to frame a bower

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quot;With interlaced branches mix and meet,

Or where with sound like many voices sweet,

Water-falls leap among wild islands green,

Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:

But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first

The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.

I do remember well the hour which burst

My spirit's sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was,

When I walked forth upon the glittering grass,

And wept, I knew not why; until there rose

From the near school-room, voices, that, alas!

Were but one echo from a world of woes—

The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.

And then I clasped my hands and looked aronnd—

But none was near to mock my streaming eyes.

Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground—

So without shame, I spake:—⁴1 will be wise,

And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies

Such power, for I grow weary to behold

The selfish and the strong still tyrannise

Without reproach or check.' I then controlled

My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

And from that hour did I with earnest thought Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore.

Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught I cared to learn, but from that secret store Wrought linked armour for my soul, before It might walk forth to war among mankind;

Thus power and hope were strengthen'd more and more Within me, till there came upon my mind A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined.

Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To those who seek all sympathies in one!—

Such once I sought in vain; then black despair,

The shadow of a starless night, was thrown

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Over the world in which I moved alone;—

Yet never found I one not false to me,

Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crush'd and wither'd mine, that could not be Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee.

Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain; How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walked as free as light the clouds among,

Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long.

No more alone through the world's wilderness, Although I trod the paths of high intent,

I journeyed now: no more companionless,

Where solitude is like despair, I went.—

There is the wisdom of a stern content When Poverty can blight the just and good.

When Infamy dares mock the innocent,

And cherished friends turn with the multitude To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood!

Now has descended a serener hour.

And with inconstant fortune, friends return; Tho' suffering leaves the knowledge and the power Which says:—Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn; And these delights, and thou, have been to me The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee.

Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?

Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again.

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Tho' it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign,

And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway

Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain

Reply in hope—but I am worn away,

And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey-

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak:

Time may interpret to his silent years.

Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek.

And in the light thine ample forehead wears,

And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears.

And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears:

And thro' thine eyes, even in thy soul I see A lamp of vestal fire burning internally.

They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth.

Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child:

I wonder not—for One then left this earth

Whose life was like a setting planet mild.

Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled

Of its departing glory; still her fame

Shines on thee, thro the tempests dark and wild

Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim

The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name.

One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit.

Which was the echo of three thousand years;

And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it.

As some lone man who in a desert hears

The music of his home:—unwonted fears

Fell on the pale oppressors of our race,

And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares.

Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space

Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place.

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind!

If there must be no response to my cry—

If men must rise and stamp with fury blind On bis pure name who loves them—thou and I,

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Sweet friend! can look from our tranquillity Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,— Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight, That burn from year to year with unextinguished light.

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert.

That from heaven, or near it,

Poureat thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun.

O'er which clouds are brightening.

Thou dost float and run;

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

Thy pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven.

In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere.

Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear.

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

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All the earth and air With thy voice is lond,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds.there flow not Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower.

Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

liike a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew.

Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves.

By warm winds deflower'd.

Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:

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Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine: •

I have never heard,

Praise of love or -wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus Hymenseal,

Or triumphant chaunt,

Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What object are the fountains Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Langour cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep.

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after.

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate , and pride, and fear;

If we were things born Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

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Better than all measures Of delight and sound,

Better than all treasures That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow.

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND.

0, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,. Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0, thou,

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low.

Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving every where;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, 0, hear!

II.

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,. Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled toughs of Heaven and Ocean,

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Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright air dplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 0, hear!

nr.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Lull'd by the coil of hia crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay.

And saw in deep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day.

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, suddenly grow grey with fear. And tremble and despoil themselves: 0, hear'.

IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, 0, uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be

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The comrade of thy wanderings ovpr heaven, As then, -when to ontstrip by akiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce _rMy spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind I Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! 0, wind.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ?

THE CLOUD.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers.

From the seas and tbe streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves wben laid

In the noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one.

When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast _rAs she dances about the sun.

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I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,

Lightning my pilot sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me.

Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains.

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream ,

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread.

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the lights of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

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Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet.

Which only the angels hear.

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof.

The stars peep behind her and peor;

And Ij laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees.

When I widen the rent in my -wind-built tent.

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas.

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with bridge-lake shape.

Over a torrents sea.

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof.

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march

With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair,

Is the million-colour'd bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove.

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water.

And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

1 change, but I cannot die,

For after the rain when with never a stain.

The pavillion of heaven is bare.

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph.

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.

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HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats, though unseen, among us; visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower;

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower, It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance;

Like hues and harmonies of evening,

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,

Like memory of music fled.

Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of Beauty ! that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ?

Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,

This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate»

Ask why the sunlight not for ever Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river;

Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown;

Why fear and dream and death and birth Cast on the daylight of this earth Such gloom, why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope'?

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses given:

Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven,

Remain the records of their vain endeavour:

Frail spells, whose utter'd charm might not avail to sever. From all we hear and all we see,

Doubt, chance, and mutability.

Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,

Or music by the night-wind sent Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream.

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

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Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart And come, for some uncertain moments lent.

Man were immortal, and omnipotent,

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art.

Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart. Thou messenger of sympathies That wax and wane in lovers' eyes;

Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,

Like darkness to a dying flame!

Depart not as thy shadow came:

Depart not, lest the grave should be.

Like life and fear, a dark reality.

quot;While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped

Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead:

I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth is fed: I was not heard: I saw thera not.

When musing deeply on the lot Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing All vital things that wake to bring News of birds and blossoming.

Sudden, thy shadow fell on me:

I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstacy!

1 vow'd that I would dedicate my powers

To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow?

With beating heart and streaming eyes , even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave: they have in vision'd bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatch'd with me the envious night:

They know that never joy illumed my brow,

Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery.

That thou, O awful Loveliness,

Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express.

The day becomes more solemn and serene

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When noon is past: there is a harmony In autamn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been 1 Thus let thy power, which like the truth Of nature on my passive youth Descended, to my onward life supply

Its calm, to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee ,

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind.

TO THE QUEEN OP MY HEART.

Shall we roam, my love,

To the twilight grove,

When the moon is rising bright;

Oh, I'll whisper there,

In the cool night air.

What I dare not in broad daylight!

I'll tell thee a part Of the thoughts that start

To being when thou art nigh ;

And thy beauty, more bright Than the stars' soft light.

Shall seem as a weft from the sky.

When the pale moonbeam .On tower and stream

Sheds a flood of silver sheen,

How I love to gaze As the cold ray strays

O'er thy face, my heart's throned queen

Wilt thou roam with me To the restless sea,

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And linger upon the steep,

And list to the flow Of the waves below

How they toss and roar and leap?

Those boiling waves And the storm that raves

At night o'er their foaming crest, Resemble the strife That, from earliest life,

The passions have waged in my breast.

Oh, come then and rove To the sea or the grove

When the moon is rising bright, And I'll whisper there In the cool night-air What I dare not in broad daylight.

STANZAS.

wkitien in dejection, near naples.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear.

The waves are dancing fast and bright,

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight. The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown I sit upon the sands alone.

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

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Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health.

Nor peace -within nor calm around,

Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found,

And walk'd with inward glory crown'd—

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround—

Smiling they live and call life pleasure;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild.

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child.

And weep away the life of care Which I have h^rne and yet must bear.

Till death like sleep might steal on me. And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone.

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old.

Insults with this untimely moan;

They might lament—for I am one

Whom men love not,—and yet regret.

Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set.

Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yeL

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JOHN KEATS (1795—1821).

THE EVE OP ST. AGNES.

St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen graas, And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath.

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith , this patient, holy man;

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. And back returnoth, meagre, barefoot, wan.

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Imprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,

He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

Northward he tumeth through a little door.

And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no—already had his death-bell rung;

The joys of all his life were said and sung:

His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:

Another way he went, and soon among Bough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve.

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;

And so it chanced, for many a door was wide.

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:

The level chambers, ready with their pride.

Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

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The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests.

With hair blown back, and wings pat cross-wise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry.

With plume, tiara, and all rich array,

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuff'd in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away,

And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,

Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day.

On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care.

As she had heard old dames full mapy times declare.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,

Young virgins might have visions of delight,

And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night,

If ceremonies due they did aright;

As, supperless to bed they must retire,

And couch supine their beauties, lily white;

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline;

The music, yearning like a God in pain.

She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain,

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:

She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes,

Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

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Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy: all amort,

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs nnshom,

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

So, purposing each moment to retire.

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors.

Had come young Prophyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

Buttrees'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him Right of Madeline,

But for one moment in the tedious hours ,

That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous citadel:

For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes.

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords.

Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul.

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,

Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand.

To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,

Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland:

He startled her; but soon she knew his face.

And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,

Saying, 'Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;

They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race I

' Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his grey hairs—Alas me! flit!

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Flit like a ghost away.'—'Ah, Gossip dear,

We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how'—'Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.quot;

He follow'd through a lowly arched way.

Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ;

And as she mutter'd. 'Well-a—well-a-day!'

He found him in a little moonlight room,

Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.

'Now tell me where is Madeline,' said he,

O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.'

'St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve—

Tet men will murder upon holy days:

Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, PorphyroI—St. Agnes' Eve!

God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive!

But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve.'

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,

While Porphyro upon her face doth look.

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook.

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.

Sudden thought came like a full-blown rose.

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:

'A cruel man and impious thou art:

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Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.'

'I will not harm her, by all saints 1 swear,'

Quoth Porphyro: '0 may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace,

Or look with ruffian passion in her face:

Good Angela, believe me by these tears;

Or I will, even in a moment's space,

Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,

And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.'

'Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,

Were never miss'd.' Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;

So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing.

That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy.

Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied.

And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,

While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet,

And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.

Never on such a night have lovers met,

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.

'It shall be as thou wishest,' said the Dame:

'All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambour-frame Her own lute thou wilt see ■ no time to spare,

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For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,

Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.'

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.

The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;

The dame retur'n'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last.

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade.

Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,

Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:

With silver taper's light, and pious care,

She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare.

Young porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

She comes, she comes again, like ringdove fray'd and fled.

Out went the taper as she hurried in;

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

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Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd -wings;

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon.

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Eose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest.

Save wings, for heaven;—Porphyro grew faint:

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

Anon his heart revives; her vespers done,

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees ,

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray:

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress.

And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

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Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept.

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! how fast she slept

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—

Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet.

Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep.

In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd.

While he forth from the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince , and plum, and gourd;

With jellies soother than the creamy curd.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;

Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night.

Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—

' And now, my loyo, my seraph fair awake!

Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:

Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache,'

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream:

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The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:

It seemed he never, never could redeem Prom such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes;

So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed fantasies.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute— Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be. He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd, 'La belle dame sans mercy:'

Close to her ear touching the melody;—

Wherewith disturbed, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly Her blue affra.yed eyes wide open shone:

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptur'd stone-

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd The blisses of her dream so pure and deep.

At which fair Madeline began to weep,

And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;

While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.

' Ah, Porphyro!' said she, ' but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear.

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe.

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go!'

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he rose,

Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;

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Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odour with the violet,—

Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:

' This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!' 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: ' No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!

Prophyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,

Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unprnned wing.'

'My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest,

A famish'd pilgrim,—saved by miracle.

Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.

' Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;

The bloated wassailers will never heed:—

Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—

Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be.

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.'

She hurried at his words, beset with fears; For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears— Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.

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In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl,

With a huge empty flagon by his side: The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm.

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,

Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform. The Beadsman, after thousand aves told.

For aye unsought-for slept amongst his ashes cold.

INFLUENCE OP BEAUTY.

{From endymion.)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth.

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

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Of noble natures; of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils quot;With the green world they live ia; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, They always must be with us, or we die.

ADDRESS TO PAN.

(From ekdymion.)

'O thoü, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;

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And through whole solemn hours dost ait, and hearken

The dreary melody of bedded reeds—

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;

Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth

Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx—do thou now,

By thy love's milky brow!

By all the trembling mazes that she ran,

Hear us, great Pan!

' 0 thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,

What time thou wauderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms; 0 thou, to whom Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,

To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies Their freckled -wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completions—be quickly near.

By every wind that nods the mountain pine , O forester divine!

'Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;

Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again;

Or to tread breathless round the frothy maiu, And gather up all fancifnllest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,

And, being hidden, laugh at their outpeeping;

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping.

The while they pelt each other on the crown

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With silvery oak-apples, and fir cones brown — By all the echoes that about thee ring,

Hear us, O satyr king!

' O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,

When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds.

That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors:

Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge—see.

Great son of Dryope,

The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows!

'Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven.

Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven , That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal—a new birth:

Be still a symbol of immensity;

A firmament reflected in a sea;

An element filling the space between; An unknown—but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending. And giving out a shout most heaven-rending. Conjure thee to receive our humble Psean,

Upon thy Mount Lycean!'

ODE TO A MIG-HTIN GALE.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

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But being too happy in thine happiness,—

That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of heechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

0, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth.

Tasting of flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!

0 for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim;

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards.

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes aud retards :

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light.

Save what from heaven is with the brtezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet.

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

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Bnt, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the frnit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buriedjdeep In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

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ODE ON A GRECIAN HEN.

Tuou still unravisli'd bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd.

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!

Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss.

Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah , happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied.

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed.

For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above.

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Leadest thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest.

What little town by river or sea-shore. Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

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Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Pair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form? dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayest, ' Beauty is truth , truth beauty,'—that is all Te know on earth, and all ye need to know.

TO AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease. For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor.

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep.

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

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Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

FAIRY SONG.

Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! Oh, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! Oh, dry your eyes! For 1 was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies—

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red—

Look up, look up. I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill.

Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu—I fly adieu,

I vanish in the heaven's blue—

Adieu, adieu!

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MXNOU IPOE1T8.

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WILLIAM LISLES BOWLES (1762-1850).

bbmbmbbance.

I shall look back, when on the main,—

Back to my native isle,

And almost think I hear again

Thy voice, and view thy smile.

But many days may pass away

Ere I again shall see Amid the yonng, the fair, the gay One who resembles thee,

Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell

On some ideal maid,

Whom fancy's pencil pictured well.

And touched with softest shade;

The imaged form I shall survey,

And pausing at the view Recall thy gentle smile, and say,

'Oh, such a maid I knew!'

sonnets.

time.

0 time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)

The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away; On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

1 may look back on every sorrow past,

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile-As some lone bird, at day's departing hour

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Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:— Tet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

dovee cliffs.

On these white clififs, that calm above the flood,

Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat.

Sure many a lonely wand'rer has stood;

And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still eve Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:

But, if like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall. Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide— The world his country, and his God his guide.

hope.

As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard, Heartless the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews;

■Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head, In varying forms fantastic wander white;

Or turns his ear to every random song,

Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight:

With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!

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JOANNA BAILLIE (1762-1851).

WELCOME BAT AND OWLET GRAY.

0 welcome bat and owlet gray,

Thus winging lone your airy way; And welcome moth and drowsy fly,

That to mine ear come humming by; And welcome shadows long and deep. And stars that from the pale sky peep! O welcome all! to me ye say,

My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair, Her breath is in the dewy air.

Her steps are in the whisper'd sound That steals along the stilly ground.

O dawn of day, in rosy bower,

What art thou in this witching hour! O noon of day, in sunshine bright,

What art thou to the fall of night!

WOO'D AND MARBLED AND A'.

The bride she is winsome and bonny.

Her hair it is snooded sae sleek, And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlins are cause of her sorrow,

New pearlins and plenishing too; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right mickle ado.

Woo'd and married and a'!

Isna she very well aff To be woo'd and married and a'?

Her mither then hastily spak:

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' The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;

In my pouch I had never a plack The day that I was a bride.

E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun;

The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won.

Woo'd and married and a'!

Wi' havins and tocher sea sma'!

I think ye are very well aff To be woo'd and married and a'!'

'Toot! toot!' quo' her grey-headed faither ' She's less o' a bride than a bairn;

She's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn.

Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans,

The chiel maun be patient and steady That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. A kerchief aae douce and sae neat. O'er her locks that the wind used to blaw I'm baith like to laugh and to greet When I think o' her married and a'!¹

Then out spak the wily bridegroom;

Weel waled were his wordies I ween:

' I'm rich, though my coffer be toom,

Wi' the blink o' your bonny blue e'en.

I'm prouder o' thee by my side,

Though thy ruffles and ribbons be few,

Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlins enou'.

Dear and dearest of ony!

Ye're woo'd and buiket and a'!

And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny, And grieve to be married at a'?'

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled, And she lookit so bashfully down;

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The pride o' her heart was beguiled,

And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown,. She twirled the tag o' her lace.

And she nippit her boddice sae blue,

Sybe blinkit sae sweet in his face ,

And aff like a mawkin she flew.

Woo'd and married and a'!

Wi' Johnny to roose her and a'! She thinks hersel' very weel aff To be woo'd and married and a'!

SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855)/ GINBVRA.

{From italy).

If ever you should come to Modena,

(Where among other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket—but 'tis not the true one)

Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,

Dwelt in of old by one of the Oraini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace. And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses.

Will long detain you—but, before you go, Enter the house—forget it not, I pray you— And look awhile upon a picture there.

quot;lis of a lady in her earliest youth,

The last of that illustrious family;

He, who observes it—ere he passes on.

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again _rThat he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,

Her lips half-open, and her finger up.

As though she said ■ Beware!' her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,

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An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart—

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion , An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,

But richly carved by Antony of Trent With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ.

She was an only child—her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;

And in her fifteenth year became a bride.

Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety.

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now , frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, 'Tis but to make a trial of our love!'

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still. Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.

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But now, alas, she was not to be found;

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Orsini lived—and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find—he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten. When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery.

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, ' Why not remove it from its lurking place ?'

'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way-It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton.

With here and there a pearl, and emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.

All else had perished—save a wedding-ring.

And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both ' Ginevra.'

There then had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there. Fastened her down for ever!

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A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch.

Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing.

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

BEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.

Deak is my little native vale.

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers.

That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twiligt glade,

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The canzonet and roundelay

Snng in the silent greenwood shade : These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

ON A TBAE.

Oh! that the Chemist's magic art

Could crystallize this sacred treasure!

Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell.

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;

Then, trembling, left its coral cell,— The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of virtue shine,—

More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!

Who ever fly'st to bring relief,—

When first we feel the rude control Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme , In every clime—in every age;

Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream, In reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source,

That law preserves the earth a sphere. And guides the planets in their course.

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JAMES GRAHAME {1765-1811).

THE WORSHIP OP GOD.

{From the sabbath).

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day; The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke;

While wandering slowly up the river side,

He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope)

To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls : .

Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile.

Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:

Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground; The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God— these, spite of all their ills, A glöw of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,

Until the man of God, worthy the name.

Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.

The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,

Then swells into a diapason full:

The people rising sing, ' with harp, with harp, And voice of psalms;' harmoniously attuned The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles, At every close, the lingering strain prolong.

And now the tubes a softened stop controls;

In softer harmony the people join,

While liquid whispers from yon orphan band,

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Recall the soul from adoration's trance,

And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.

Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets The hallelujahs of the quire. Sublime A thousand notes symphoniously ascend.

As if the whole were one, suspended high In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float, quot;Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's coach: Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered; He smiles on death; but ah! a wish will rise— 'Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow; My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,

There would I bless His name who led me forth From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.'

It is not only in the sacred fane That homage should be paid to the Most High; There is a temple, one not made with hands, The vaulted firmament. Far in the woods.

Almost beyond the sound of city chime, At intervals heard through the breezeless air; When not the limberest leaf is seen to move.

Save where the linnet lights upon the spray; Where not a flow'ret bends its little stalk,

Save when the bee alights upon the bloom— There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love. The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon; Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts, Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend Beyond the empyreal.

Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne. The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy!

In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,

Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,

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Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son; Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed, With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conned With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,

Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.

Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps.

Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands Returning homeward from the house of prayer.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD (1766—1823). HARVEST.

(From the pabmer's boy).

A glomous sight, if glory dwells below.

Where heaven's munificence makes all things show,

O'er every field and golden prospect found,

That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round

When on some eminence he takes his stand,

To judge the smiling produce of the land.

Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide;

What is there here to flatter human pride?

The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,

And steadfast columns may astonish more.

Where the charmed gazer long delighted stays,

Yet traced but to the architect the praise;

Whilst here the veriest clown that treads the sod.

Without one scruple gives the praise to God;

And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,

From gratitude and admiration joined.

Here , 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth.

Nature herself invites the reapers forth;

Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,

And gives that ardour which in every breast

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From infancy to age alike appears,

When the first sheaf its plumy top upreara.

No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows— Children of want, for you the bounty flows! And every cottage from the plenteous store Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Hark! where ths sweeping scythe now rips along; Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,

Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,

Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet. But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.

Come Health! come Jollity! light-footed come;

Here hold your revels, and make this your home. Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;

Each moistened brow that scorns to wear a frown: The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants strayed; E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid Hies to the field the general toil to share. Meanwhile the fanner quits his elbow-chair. His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease, And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, The ready group attendant on his word To turn the swath, the quivering load to rear, Or ply the busy rake the land to clear.

Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down: Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by;

While unrestrained the social converse flows, And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows, And rival wits with more than rustic grace Confess the presence of a pretty face.

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ROSY HANNAH.

A spring, o'erhung with many a flower, The grey sand dancing in its bed,

EmbanVd beneath a hawthorn bower.

Sent forth its waters near ray head.

A rosy lass approach'd my view;

I caught her blue eye's modest beam:

The stranger nodded 'how d'ye do!' And leap'd across the infant stream.

The water heedless pass'd away:

With me her glowing image stay'd:

I strove, from that auspicious day.

To meet and bless the lovely maid.

I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew;

Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave, And shaded verdure skirts the plain;

And when the pale moon rising gave New glories to her clouded train.

From her sweet cot upon the moor

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;

Truth made me welcome at her door. And rosy Hannah is my own.

WOODLAND HALLO.

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,

I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,

And kind is my lover hard by;

They both work together beneath the green shade.

Both woodmen, my father and Joe;

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or—Hallo.

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From my basket at noon they expect their supply And with joy from my threshold I spring;

For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high, And echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood.

And my heart leaps to hear the—Hallo.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, For I know that my Joe will be true.

The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove. Are charms that I'll never forego;

But resting through life on the bosom of love,

Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

RANBLAGH.

To Ranelagh, once in my life,

By good-natur'd force I was driven;

The nations had ceas'd their long strife.

And Peace beam'd her radiance from heaven.

What wonders were there to be found That a clown might enjoy or disdain?

First we trac'd the gay ring all around. Aye—and then we went round it again.

A thousand feet rustled on mats,

A carpet that once had been green;

Wen bow'd with their outlandish bats.

With comers so fearfully keen!

Fair maids, who at home in their haste Had left all clothing else but a train.

Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd. And then—walk'd round and swept it again.

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The music -was truly enchanting!

Right glad was I when I came near it;

But in fashion I found I was wanting—

'Twas the fashion to talk not to hear it!

A fine youth, as beauty beset him,

Look'd smilingly round on the train;

'The king's nephew,' they cried, as they met him; Then—we went round and met him again.

Huge paintings of heroes and Peace

Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle, Proud to fill up each tall shining space

Round the lanthorn that stood in the middle. And George's head too; Heaven screen him!

May he finish in peace his long reign!

And what did we when we had seen him? Why—went round and saw him again.

A bell rang, announcing new pleasures,

A crowd in an instant prest hard.

Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures,

Round a door that led into the yard.

'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute,

As a white flock would cover a plain!

quot;We had seen every soul that was in it,

Then we went round and saw them again.

But now came a scene worth the showing.

The fire works! midst laughs and huzzas,

quot;With explosions the sky was all glowing.

Then down stream'd a million of stars;

With a rush the bright rockets ascended .

Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain;

We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended.

Then star'd at each other again.

There thousands of gay lamps aspired

To the tops of the trees and beyond;

And, what was most hugely admired,

They look'd all upside-down in a pond!

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The blaze scarce an eagle could bear;

And an owl had most surely been slain; quot;We return'd to the circle, and there—

And there we went round it again.

Tis not wisdom to love without reason,

Or to censure without knowing why:

I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason,

'O Life, 'tis thy picture,' said I.

'Tis just thus we saunter along,

Months and years bring their pleasures or pain; We sigh 'midst the right and the wrong. And then we go round them again!

CAROLINA BARONESS NAIRNE (1766—1845). THE T.ATRT) OF COCKPEN.

The Laird of Cockpen he's proud an' he's great.

His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the State; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep.

But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At the head of his table he thought she'd look well; McLish's ae daughter, of Claverse-ha' Lee,

A tocherless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue.

He put on his ring, sword, and cock'd hat.

And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,

An' he rapp'd at the gate o' Claverse-ha' Lee;

'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,

She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen.'

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Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine, 'An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time?' She put aff her apron and on her silk gown. Her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa¹ down.

An' when she came ben, he bowed fu' low.

An' what was bis errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the Lady said 'Na,' And wi' a laigb curtsie she turned her awa'.

Dumbfoundered was he, nae sigh did he gie. He mounted his mare, and rade cannily;

And aften he thought as he gaed through the glen, 'She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.'

And now that the Laird his exit had made,¹)

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said— 'Oh! for one I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.'

Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in his ha' like a weel-tappit hen.

But, as yet, there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.

CALLER HEREIN'.

Wha'11 buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Wha'11 buy my caller herrin' New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows. Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows. Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows?

The last two verses were added by Miss Ferrier, authoress of Marriage.

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Buy my caller herrin' New drawn frae the Forth.

Wha'11 buy my caller herrin'?

They're no brought here without brave darin';

Buy my caller herrin',

Haul'd thro' wind and rain.

Wha'11 buy my caller herrin'? amp;c.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin';

Wives and mithers, maist despairin',

Ca' them lives o' men.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? amp;c.

When the creel o' herrin' passes.

Ladies, clad in silks and laces.

Gather in their braw pelisses.

Cast their heads, and screw their faces.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? amp;c.

Caller herrin's no got lightly.

Ye can trip the spring fu' tightly;

Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',

Gow has set you a' a-singin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? amp;c.

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin'

When the bonnie fish ye're sellin'

At ae word be in yer dealin'—

Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonnie fish and halesome farin' Wha'll buy my caller herrin'

New drawn frae the Forth?

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MRS AMELIA OPIE (1769—1853).

SONG.

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find Tet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids,

To think on her thou leav'st behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,

Must never be my happy lot;

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet, should the thought of my distress

Too painful to thy feelings be.

Heed not the wish I now express.

Nor ever deign to think on me:

But oh! if grief thy steps attend,

If want, if sickness be thy lot,

And thou require a soothing friend.

Forget me not! forget me not!

JAMES HOGG (1772-1835). WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY.

Oh, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away?

There's no a heart in a' the glen

That disna dread the day:

Oh, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away?

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't—

A waefu' wight is he;

Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't.

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An' laid him down to dee;

An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,

An' learnin'' fast to pray:

And oh, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away?

The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw

Has drunk her health in wine; The priest has said—in confidence—

The lassie was divine,

And what is mair in maiden's praise

Than ony priest should say:

But oh, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away?

The wailing in our green glen That day will quaver high;

'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood,

The laverock frae the sky;

The fairies frae their beds o' dew

Will rise an' join the lay:

An' hey! what a day will be When Maggy gangs away!

AN ARABIAN SONG.

Meet me at even, my own true love, Meet me at even, my honey, my dove, Where the moonbeam revealing, The cool fountain stealing,

Away and away Through flow'rets so gay.

Singing its silver roundelay.

Love is the fountain of life and bliss, Love is the valley of joyfulness; A garden of roses,

Where rapture reposes,—

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A temple of light All heavenly bright;

0, virtuous love is the soul's delight!

THE SKYLARK.

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberlesa,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place— . 0 to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud.

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen.

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim.

Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,— 0 to abide in the desert with thee!

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KILMENY.

{From the queen's wake).

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen;

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

It was only to hear the yorlin sing,

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,

And the nut that hang frae the hazel-tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',

And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw;

Lang the Laird of Duneira blame.

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hamel

When many a day had come and fled.

When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,

When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung.

When the bedesman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,

Late, late in a gloamin when all was still.

When the fringe was red on the westlin hill.

The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane.

The reek o' the cot hung over the plain.

Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;

When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme.

Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame!

'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?

Lang hae we sought baith holt and den;

By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree.

Yet you are halesome and fair to see.

Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen?

That bonny snood of the birk sae green?

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?¹

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;

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As still was her look, and as still was her ee,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew,

But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung.

And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen.

And a land where sin had never been;

A land of love, and a land of night,

Withouten sun, or moon, or night:

Where the river swa'd a living stream.

And the light a pure celestial beam:

The land of vision it would seem,

A still, an everlasting dream.

In yon green-wood there is a waik,

And in that waik there is a wene.

And in that wene there is a maike,

That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane:

And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.

In that green wene Kilmeny lay.

Her bosom happed wi the flowerets gay;

But the air was soft and the silence deep.

And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep.

She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee,

Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.

She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;

And lovely beings round were rife.

Who erst had travelled mortal life;

And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer.

What spirit has brought this mortal here?—

Lang have I journeyed the world wide,

A meek and reverent fere replied;

Baith night and day I have watched the fair,

Eident a thousand years and mair.

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Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree,

Wherever blooms femenitye;

But sinless virgin, free of stain

In mind and body, fand I nane.

Never, sinoe the banquet of time,

Found I a virgin in her prime.

Till late this bonny maiden I saw

As spotless as the moming-snaw:

Full twenty years she has lived as free

As the spirits that sojourn this countrye:

I have brought her away frae the snares of men,

That sin or death she never may ken.—

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair.

They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair

And round came many a blooming fere,

Saying: Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!

Women are freed of the littand scorn:

O, blessed be the day Kilmeny was bom!

Now shall the land of the spirits see.

Now shall it ken what a woman may be!

Many a lang year in sorrow and pain.

Many a lang year through the world we've gane.

Commissioned to watch fair womankind,

For it's they who nurice the immortal mind.

We have watched their steps as the dawning shone.

And deep in the green-wood walks alone;

By lily-bower and silken bed.

The viewless tears have o'er them shed;

Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep.

Or left the couch of love to weep.

We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come.

And the angels will weep at the day of doom!

O, would the fairest of mortal kind

Aye keep the holy truths in mind,

That kindred spirits their motions see.

Who watch their ways with anxious ee,

And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!

0, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer,

And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair!

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And dear to Heaven the words of truth,

And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth!

And dear to the viewless forms of air,

The minds that kyth as the body fair!

0, bonny Kilmeny! free frae stain.

If ever you seek the world again,

That world of sin, of sorrow and fear,

0, tell of the joys that are waiting here;

And tell of the signs you shall shortly see

Of the times that are now, and the time that shall be.

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,

And she walked in the light of a sunless day.

The sky was a dome of crystal bright.

The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:

The emerald fields were of dazzling glow.

And the flowers of everlasting blow.

Then deep in the stream her body they laid,

That her youth and beauty never might fade;

And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie

In the stream of life that wandered bye.

And she heard a song, she heard it sung.

She kend not where; but sae sweetly it rung,

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn:

0! blest be the day Kilmeny was born!

Now shall the land of the spirits see.

Now shall it ken what a woman may be!

The sun that shines on the world sae bright,

A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light;

And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun.

Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun.

Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair,

And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.

But lang, lang after baith night and day.

When the sun and the world have elyed away;

When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom ,

Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!—

They bore her away, she wist not how,

For she felt not arm nor rest below;

But so swift they wained her through the light.

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'Twas like the motion of sound or sight;

They seemed to split the galea of air, And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. Unnumbered groves below them grew,

They came, they past, and backward flew. Like floods of blossoms gliding on,

In moment seen, in moment gone.

O, never vales to mortal view Appeared like those o'er which they flew ! That land to human spirits given, The lowermost vales of the storied heaven; From thence they can view the world below. And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow, More glory yet unmeet to know.

They bore her far to a mountain green, To see what mortal never had seen;

And they seated her high on a purple sward, And bade her heed what she saw and heard, And note the changes the spirits wrought. For now she lived in the land of thought. She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies, But a crystal dome of a thousand dies: She looked, and she saw nae land aright. But an endless whirl of glory and light: And radiant beings went and came Par swifter than wind, or the linked flame. She hid her een frae the dazzling view; She looked again, and the scene was new.

She saw a sun on a summer-sky,

And clouds of amber sailing bye;

A lovely land beneath her lay.

And that land had glens and mountains gray;

And that land had valleys and hoary piles,

And marled seas, and a thousand isles;

Its fields were speckled, its forests green,

And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen,

Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay

The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray;

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quot;Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung,

On every shore they seemed to he hung;

For there they were seen on their downward plain

A thousand times and a thousand again;

In winding lake and placid firth,

Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.

Eilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve,

For she found her heart to that land did cleave;

She saw the com wave on the vale,

She saw the deer run down the dale;

She saw the plaid and the broad claymore,

And the brows that the badge of freedom bore;

And she thought she had seen the land before.

She saw a lady sit on a throne.

The fairest that ever the sun shone on!

A lion licked her hand of milk,

And she held him in a leish of silk;

And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee,

With a silver wand and melting ee;

Her sovereign shield till love stole in. And poisoned all the fount within.

Then a gruff untoward bedes-man came,

And hundit the lion on his dame,

And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee,

She dropped a tear, and left her knee;

And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled,

Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead;

A coffin was set on a distant plain,

And she saw the red blood fall like rain:

Then bonny Eilmeny's heart grew sair.

And she turned away, and could look nae mair.

Then the gruff grim carle girned amain,

And they trampled him down, but he rose again;

And he baited the Hon to deeds of weir.

Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear;

And weening his head was danger-preef,

When crowned with the rose and clover leaf,

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He gowled at the carle, and chased him away To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray.

He gowled at the carle, and he gecked at Heaven, But his mark was set, and his arles given.

Kilmeny a while her een withdrew;

She looked again, and the scene was new.

She saw below her fair unfurled

One half of all the glowing world.

Where oceans rolled, and rivers ran.

To bound the aims of sinful man.

She saw a people, fierce and fell,

Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell;

There lilies grew and the eagle flew.

And she herked on her ravening crew.

Till the cities and towers were rapt in a blaze.

And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and the seas.

The widows they wailed, and the red blood ran,

And she threatened an end to the race of man:

She never lened, nor stood in awe;

Till claught by the lion's deadly paw.

Oh! then the eagle swinked for life.

And brainzelled up a mortal strife;

But flew she north, or flew she south.

She met wi' the gowl of the lion's mouth.

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen.

The eagle sought her eiry again;

But lang may she cower in her bloody nest,

And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast,

Before she sey another flight,

To play wi' the norland lion's might.

But to sing the nights Kilmeny saw

So far surpassing nature's law,

The singer's voice wad sink away,

And the string of his harp wad cease to play.

But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye.

And all was love and harmony;

Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,

Like the flakes of snaw on a winter-day. ,

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Then Kilmeny begged again to see The friends she left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen; To warn the living maidens fair,

The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care,

That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.

With distant music, soft and deep,

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;

And when she awakened, she lay her lane,

All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene

When seven lang years had come and fled;

When grief was calm, and hope was dead;

When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name.

Late, late in a gloamin Kilmeny came hame!

And 0, her beauty was fair to see.

But still and steadfast was her ee!

Such beauty bard may never declare.

For there was no pride nor passion there;

And the soft desire of maiden's een

In that mild face could never be seen.

Her seymar was the lily flower.

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;

And her voice like the distant melodye.

That floats along the twilight-sea.

But she loved to raike the lanely glen,

And keeped afar frae the haunts of men;

Her holy hymns unheard to sing,

To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.

But wherever her peaceful form appeared.

The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;

The wolf played blythly round the field,

The lordly byson lowed and kneeled;

The dun deer wooed with manner bland,

And cowered aneath her lily hand.

And when at even the woodlands rung.

When hymns of other worlds she sung

In ecstasy of sweet devotion.

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O, then the glen was all in motion!

The wild beasts of the forest came.

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,

And goved around, charmed and amazed;

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed.

And murmured and looked with anxious pain

For something the mystery to explain.

The buzzard came with the trostle-cock ;

The corby left her houf in the rock;

The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;

The hind came tripping o'er the dew;

The wolf and the kid their raike began,

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;

The hawk and the hern attour them hung,

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:

It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;

There laid her down on the leaves sae green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But oh, the words that fell from her mouth.

Were words of wonder, and words of truth! But all the land were in fear and dread.

For they kendna whether she was living or dead. It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain, She left this world of sorrow and pain, And returned to the land of thought again.

JAMES MONTGOMERY (1771-1864). ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

Higher , higher will we climb

Up the mount of glory.

That our names may live through time la our country's story;

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Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and Learning's spoil

Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press

Through the path of duty;

Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty;

Minds are of celestial birth.

Make we then a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together.

Where our fireside-comforts sit

In the wildest weather;—

O, they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home!

HOME.

Theke is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light. And milder moons emparadise the night;

A land of beauty, virtue; valour, truth. Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;

In every clime the magnet of his soul,

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;

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For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,

The heritage of nature's noblest race,

There is a spot of earth supremely blest,

A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside

His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride.

While in his softened looks benignly blend

The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend;

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,

Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye.

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;

Around her knees domestic duties meet.

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found

Art thou a man?—a patriot?—look around;

0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam.

That land thy country, and that spot thy Home.

TO AGNES.

Time will not check his eager flight.

Though gentle Agnes scold.

For 'tis the sage's dear delight To make young ladies old.

Then listen, Agnes, friendship sings;

Seize fast his forelock grey. And pluck from his careering wings A feather every day.

Adorn'd with these, defy his rage. And bid him plough your face, For every furrow of old age Shall be a line of grace.

Start not: old age is Virtue's prime; Most lovely she appears.

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Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time, Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale in boundless bloom,

The eternal mountains rise;

Virtue descends not to the tomb. Her rest is in the skies.

MRS MARY TIGHE (1773-1810). PSYSCHE GAZING TJPOMquot; THE LOVE-GOD.

{From psyche).

Allowed to settle on celestial eyes,

Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway.

From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The powers of heaven submissively obey.

Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay.

With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes.

Twice, as with agitated step she went,

The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam. As though it warned her from her rash intent: And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh;

As one just waking from a troublous dream.

With palpitating heart and straining eye.

Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh.

Oh, daring Muse! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show? And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ?

Ah! well I ween, that if with pencil true

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That splendid vision could be well expressed, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confessed.

All imperceptible to human touch,

His wings display celestial essence light;

The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright.

That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight; A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years;

Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight,

Each golden curl resplendently appears.

Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears:

Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw.

That front than polished ivory more white! His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow Than roses scattered o'er a bed of snow:

While on his lips, distilled in balmy dews,

(Those lips divine, that even in silence know The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse,

Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues.

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep Disclosed not yet his eyes' resistless sway.

But from their silky veil there seemed to peep Some brilliant glances with a softened ray.

Which o'er his features exquisitely play.

And all his polished limbs suffuse with light.

Thus through some narrow space the azure day, Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright,

Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night.

His fatal arrows and celestial bow Beside the couch were negligently thrown.

Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to show His glorious birth; such beauty round him shone As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone;

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The bloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished son: And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire, And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire.

Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost,

Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye;

Her limbs immovable, her senses tossed Between amazement, fear, and ecstacy.

She hangs enamoured o'er the deity.

Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls The fatal lamp—he starts—and suddenly Tremendous thunders echo through the halls.

While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls.

Dread horror seizes on her sinking heart,

A mortal chillness shudders at her breast.

Her soul shrinks fainting from death's icy dart, The groan scarce uttered dies but half expressed. And down she sinks in deadly swoon oppressed: But when at length, awaking from her trance. The terrors of her fate stand all confessed.

In vain she casts around her timid glance;

The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance.

No traces of those joys, alas, remain!

A desert solitude alone appears;

No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers; One barren face the dreary prospect wears;

Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye To calm the dismal tumult of her fears;

No trace of human habitation nigh;

A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky.

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MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (1773—1818).

ALOKZO THE BRAVE AND PAIR IMOGINE.

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright,

Conversed as they sat on the green;

They gazed on each other with tender delight:

Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight— The maiden's, the Fair Imogine.

'And, oh!' said the youth, 'since to morrow I go

To fight in a far distant land,

Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,

Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand!'

'Oh! hush these suspicions,' Fair Imogine said,

'Offensive to love and to me;

For, if you be living, or if you be dead,

I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead Shall husband of Imogine be.

If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside.

Forget my Alonzo the Brave,

God great that, to punish my falsehood and pride.

Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride.

And bear me away to the grave!'

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold.

His love she lamented Mm sore;

But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold P A baron, all covered with jewels and gold,

Arrived at Fair Imogine's door.

His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain,

Soon made her untrue to her vows;

He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain; He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse.

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And now had tlie marriage been blest by the priest;

The revelry now was begun;

The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast, Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased.

When the bell at the castle tolled—one.

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

A stranger was placed by her side:

His air was terrific; he uttered no sound-He spake not, he moved not, he looked not around— But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height.

His armour was sable to view;

All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight; The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright; The lights in the chamber burned blue!

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;

The guests sat in silence and fear;

At length spake the bride—while she trembled—'I pray, Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer.'

The lady is silent; the stranger complies—

His vizor he slowly unclosed;

Oh, God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!

What words can express her dismay and surprise When a skeleton's head was exposed!

All present then uttered a terrified shout.

All turned with disgust from the scene;

The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out. And sported his eyes and his temples about,

While the spectre addressed Imogine:

'Behold me, thou false one, behold me!' he cried,

'Remember Alonzo the Brave!

God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride. My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side;

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Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, And bear thee away to the grave!'

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,

While loudly she shrieked in dismay;

Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning ground,

Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

Or the spectre that bore her away.

Not long lived the baron; and none, since that time, To inhabit the castle presume;

For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,

There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime.

And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound,

Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,

Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight.

And shriek as he whirls her around!

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them the spectres are seen;

Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave

They howl: ' To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

And Ms consort, the Fair Imogine!'

CHARLES LAMB (1775-1835). TO HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die. Their place ye may not well supply. Though ye among a thousand try. With vain endeavour.

A month or more she hath been dead, Tet cannot I by force be led

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To think upon the wormy bed,

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,

A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate.

That, flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside I shall it call:—if 'twas not pride. It was a joy to that allied.

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in Nature's school; Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, lt; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Te could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

Shall we not meet, as heretofore.

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning?

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like au ingrate I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghoat-liks I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left mej And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

JOHN LETDEN (1775-1811). THE EVENING STAB.

How sweet thy modest light to view Fair star! to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through a tear.

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair.

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Though blazing o'er the arch of night The moon thy timid beams outshine

As far as thine each starry light—

Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft enchanting hours When twilight lingers on the plain,

And whispers to the closing flow'rs,

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmering bland As music, wafts the lover's sight;

And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstacy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain;

Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love,—

But sweeter to be lov'd again.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB (1775-1864). HOSE AYLMER.

Ah, what avails the sceptred race,

Ah, what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see;

A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

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SIXTEEN.

In Clementina's artless mien

Lucilla asks me what I see,

And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that he all,

Have 1 not cull'd as sweet before—

Ah, yes, Lucilla: and their fall I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene,

And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose.

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever; And Modesty, who, when she goes Is gone for ever.

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought.

And wearied all thought To vex myself and him: I now would give

My love could he but live Who lately lived for me, and, when he found

'Twas fain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me: but mine returns,

And this lorn bosom burns

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With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep.

And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

' Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer,

'Those may she never share!'

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be. And, oh; pray, too, for me!

TO JANTHE.

While the winds whistle round my cheerless room And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom: While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, The ripening harvest and the hoary sands:

Alone, and destitute of every page That fires the poet, or informs the sage,

Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove. Rest upon past or cherish promised love?

Alas! the past I never can regain,

Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain. Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom,

Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. What then would passion, what would reason do ? Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.

Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour, And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour; Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,

Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

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THE BBIAB.

My briar that smelledst sweet,

When gentle spring's first heat Ran through thy quiet veins;

Thou that couldst injure none,

But wouldst be left alone,

Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains.

What; hath no poet's lyre O'er thee, sweet breathing briar.

Hung fondly, ill or well?

And yet, methinks with thee,

A poet's sympathy.

Whether in weal or woe in life or death, might dwell.

Hard usage both must bear.

Few hands your youth will rear.

Few bosoms cherish you ;

Tour tender prime must bleed Ere you are sweet, but freed From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.

THE DBAGON-FLY.

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade; Or wavy willow, by the running stream. Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly Wanders as careless and content as I.

Thanks for this fancy, insect king.

Of purple crest and meshy wing,

Who, with indifference, givest up The water-lily's golden cup,

To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book.

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Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine; And yet their souls shall live for ever, And thine drop dead into the river! God pardon them, O insect king. Who fancy so unjust a thing!

THBASYMEDES AND EUNÖE.

Who will away to Athens with me? Who

Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers

Unenvious? Mount the pinnace; hoist the sail,

I promise ye, as many as are here,

Te shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste

From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine

Of a low vineyard, or a plant ill-pruned.

But such as anciently the iEgean isles

Poured in libation at their solemn feasts;

And the same goblets shall ye grasp, embost

With no vile figures of loose languid boors,

But such as gods have lived with and have led.

The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail Plays yonder? What pursues it? Like two hawks Away they fly. Let us away in time To overtake them. Are they menaces We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak, Enraged at her defender ? Hippias!

Art thou the man? 'Twas Hippias. He had found His sister borne from the Cecropion port By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly?

Ask, ask the maiden; I have no reply.

•Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love.

If pity ever touched thy breast, forbear!

Strike not the brave, the gentle, the beloved, My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone

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Protecting his own head and mine from harm.quot;

'Didst thou not once before,' cried Hippias,

Regardless of his sister, hoarse -with wrath At Thrasymedes, 'didst thou not, dog-eyed.

Dare, as she walked up to the Parthenon On the most holy of all holy days,

In sight of all the city, dare to kiss Her maiden cheek?'

'Ay, before all the gods.

Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis,

Ay, before Aphrodite, before Herè,

I dared; and dare again. Arise, my spouse!

Arise 1 and let my lips quaff purity From thy fair open brow.'

The sword was up.

And yet he kissed her twice. Some god withheld The arm of Hippias; his proud blood seethed slower And smote his breast less angrily; he laid His hand on the white shoulder and spoke thus: 'Ye must return with me. A second time Offended, will our sire Peisistratos

Pardon the affront? Thou shouldst hare asked thyself

That question ere the sail first flapt the mast.'

'Already thou bast taken life from me;

Put up thy sword,' said the sad youth , his eyes

Sparkling; but whether love or rage or grief

They sparkled with, the gods alone could sec.

Peirseus they re-entered, and their ship

Drove np the little waves against the quay,

Whence was thrown out a rope from one above,

And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's waist

Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed to think

He had retained it there, in sight of rude

Irreverent men; he led her forth nor spake.

Hippias walked silent too, until they reached ,

The mansion of Peisistratos, her sire.

Serenely in his sternness did the prince

Look on them both awhile; they saw not him,

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For both had cast their eyes upon the ground. 'Are these the pirates thou hast taken, son ?'

Said he. 'Worse, father! worse than pirates they Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites Twice over.'

'Well hast thou performed thy duty,' Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos.

'Nothing then, rash young man! could turn thy heart From Eunöe my daughter?'

'Nothing, Sir,

Shall ever turn it. I can die but once And love but once. O Eunöe! farewell!'

'Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for hor.' 'O father! Shut me in my chamber, shut me In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive,

But never let me see what he can bear;

I know how much that is when home for me.' 'Not yet: come on. And lag not thou behind,

Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts!

Before the people, and before the goddess,

Thou hadst evinced the madness of thy passion, And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness To poverty and exile, this my child '

Then shuddered Thrasymedes, and exclaimed,

'I see my crime; I saw it not before.

The daughter of Peisistratos was born Neither for exile nor for poverty,

Ah! nor for me!' He would have wept,, but one Might see him, and weep worse. The prince unmoved Strode on, and said, 'To-morrow shall the people All who beheld thy trespasses behold The justice of Peisistratos, the love He bears his daughter, and the reverence In which he holds the highest law of God.quot;

He spake; and on the morrow they were one.

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JAMES'SMITH (1775-1839). THE BABY'S DEBUT.

BY W. V.

{From REJECTED ADDRESSES).

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight }ears of age who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,

And I was eight on New Year's Day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)

Bought me, last week, a doll of wax.

And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,

He thinks mine came to more than his.

So to my drawer he goes.

Takes out the doll, and, 0 my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars.

And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,

And tie it to his peg-top's peg.

And bang, with might and main,

Its head against the parlour door:

Off flies the head, and hits the floor.

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite;

Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot.

Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break. And cried, '0 naughty Nancy Lake,

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Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!' And while papa said, 'Pooh, she may Mamma said, 'No, she shan't!'

Well, after many a sad reproach. They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind; The tails of both hung down behind; Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville,

Stood in the lumber room:

I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes

(I always talk to Sam):

So what does he, but takes and drags Me in the chaise along the flags. And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick. But not so tall, and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As these that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down.

Won't hide it, I'll be bound: And there's a row of lamps; my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught held of the wing,

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And kept away; but Mr Thing-

Umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaiae a shove, And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;

Speak to 'em, little Nan.

You've only got to curtsey, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,

And then you're sure to take:

I've known the day when brats not quite Thirteen got fifty pounds a-night,

Then why not Nancy Lake?'

But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma

Where's Jack ? Oh , there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows kiss, and exit-

HORACE SMITH (1779-1849).

ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.

Akd thou hast walked about (how strange a story !gt;

In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, quot;When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;

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Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above-ground, mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect—

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade—

Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles. Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat.

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat.

Or dofied thine own to let Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled. For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed.

Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled: Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us vhat those sightless orbs have seen. How the world looked when it was fresh and young,

And the great deluge still had left it green;

Or was it then so old, that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages?

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Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;

But prithee tell us something of thyself;

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen—what strange adventures numbered ?

Since first thy form was in this bos extended,

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen—we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled,

Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,

When thé great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,

Marched armies o'er' thy tomb with thundering tread,

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder.

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled:

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ?

Statue of flesh—immortal of the dead!

Imperishable type of evanescence !

Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence,

Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning.

When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure.

If its undying guest be lost for ever?

Oh, let ns keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue, that, when both must sever.

Although corruption may our frame consume.

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

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REV. GEORGE CROLY (1780—1860). PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

This was the ruler of the land,

When Athens was the land of fame;

This was the light that led the band,

When each was like a living flame:

The centre of earth's noblest ring.

Of more than men, the more than king!

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear.

His sovereignty was held or won;

Fear'd—but alone as freemen fear;

Loved,—but as freemen love alone:

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,

By Nature's first great title—mind!

Resistless words were on his tongne;

Then eloquence first flash'd below!

Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow!

And his the sole, the sacred hand.

That shook her aegis o'er the land!

And thron'd immortal, by his side,

A woman sits, with eye sublime,—

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;

But if their solemn love were crime,

Pity the beauty and the sage.

Their crime was in their darken'd age.

He perish'd—but his wreath was won—

He perish'd on his height of fame!

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun;

Yet still she conquer'd in his name.

Fill'd with his soul, she could not die—

Her conquest was posterity!

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EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1849) SOTTG.

(From coiin-law rhymes).

Where the poor cease to pay, Go, loved one, and rest!

Thou art wearing away To the land of the blest.

Our father is gone

Where the wrong'd are forgiven

And that dearest one,

Thy husband, in heaven.

No toil in despair No tyrant, no slave,

No bread-tax is there,

With a maw like the grave.

But the poacher, thy pride,

Whelm'd in ocean afar;

And his brother, who died Land-butcher'd in war,

And their mother, who sank Broken-hearted to rest;

And the baby, that drank Till it froze on her breast;

With tears and with smiles, Are waiting for thee.

In the beautiful isles Where the wrong'd are the free

Go, loved one, and rest

Where the poor cease to pay!

To the land of the blest Thou art wearing away;

But the son of thy pain Will yet stay with me

And poor little Jane Looks sadly like thee.

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SONG.

Child, is thy father dead?

Father is gone!

Why did they tax his bread?

God's will be done!

Mother has sold her bed;

Better to die than -wed!

Where shall she lay her head? Home we have none!

Father clamm'd thrice a week—

God's will be done!

Long for work did he seek,

Work he found none.

Tears on his hollow cheek Told what no tongue could speak: Why did his master break ?

God's will be done!

Doctor said air was best—

Food we had none;

Father, with panting breast,

Groan'd to be gone:

Now he is with the blest—

Mother says death is best! We have no place of rest— Yes, ye have one!

TO THE BBAMBLE-PLOWER.

Tht fruit full well the school-boy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;

I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'bt not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers;

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For dull the eye, the heart is dull

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them;

While silent showers are falling slow,

And 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;

The violet by the moss'd grey stone

Hath laid her weary head;

But thon wild bramble! back dost bring.

In all their beauteous power ,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bid'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. In freedom and in joy.

REGINALD HEBER (1783—1826).

HYMN.

Lo, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield! Hark to Nature's lesson, given By the blessed birds of heaven!

Every bush and tufted tree Warbles sweet philosophy: '

'Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow; God provideth for the morrow!

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Say, with richer crimson glows The kingly mantle than the rose? Say, have kings more wholesome fare Than we poor citizens of air?

Barns nor hoarded grain have we, Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow: God provideth for the morrow!

One there lives, whose guardian eye Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all, Keeps our feathers lest they fall.

Pass we blithely then the time. Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow: God provideth for the morrow!'

FROM BISHOP HEBEB'S JOURNAL.

If thou wert by my side, my love.

How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side.

My babies at my knee,

How gaily would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray.

When on our deck reclined,

In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Cunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide.

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side.

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I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer,

But miss thy kind approving eye,

Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far. Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads. My course be onward still;

O'er bread Hindostan's sultry meads. O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. Across the dark-blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1784—1842). A WET SHEET AND A PLOWTNG SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,—

And fills the white and rustling sail.

And bends the gallant mast:

And bends the gallant mast, my boys.

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

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I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And whita waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free,—¹The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon .

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark ! the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud:

The wind is piping loud, my boys.

The lightning flashing free,—

While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.

She slept, and there was visioned in her sleep

A hill: above its summit sang the lark—

She strove to climb it: ocean wide and deep

Gaped for her feet, where swam a sable bark.

Manned with dread shapes, whose aspects, doure and dart.

Mocked God's bright image; huge and grim they grew—

Quenched all the lights of heaven , save one small spark,

Then seized her—laughing to the bark they drew

Her shuddering, shrieking—ocean kindled as they flew.

And she was carried to a castle bright.

A voice said, ' Sibyl, here's thy blithe bridegroom!'

She shrieked—she prayed;—at once the bridal light

Was quenched, and changed to midnight's funeral glcom.

She saw swords flash, and many a dancing plume

Roll on before her; while around her fell

Increase of darkness, like the hour of doom;

She felt herself as chained by charm and spell.

Lo! one to win her came she knew and loved right well.

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Right through the darkness down to ocean-flood

He bore her now: the deep and troubled sea

Rolled red before her like a surge of blood,

And wet her feet; she felt it touch her knee-

She started—waking from her terrors, she

Let through the room the midnight's dewy air—

The gentle air, so odorous, fresh, and free,

Her bosom cooled: she spread her palms and there

Knelt humble, and to God confessed herself in prayer.

'God of my Fathers! thou who didst upraise

Their hearts and touched them with heroic fire.

And madest their deeds the subject of high praise—

Their daughter's beauty charm the poet's lyre-

Confirm me in the right- my mind inspire

With godliness and grace and virtuous might,

To win this maiden-venture, heavenly sire!

Chase darkness from me, let me live in light,

And take those visions dread from thy weak servant's sight.'

Even while she prayed, her spirit waxed more meek.

'Mid snow-white sheets her whiter limbs she threw;

A moon-beam came, and on her glowing cheek

Dropt bright, as proud of her diviner hue.

Sweet sleep its golden mantle o'er her threw.

And there she lay as innocent and mild

As unfledged dove or daisy born in dew.

Fair dreams descending chased off visions wild;

She stretched in sleep her hand, and on the shadows smiled.

SABBATH MORNING.

Dear is the hallow'd morn to me,

When village bells awake the day; And, by their sacred minstrelsy.

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord!

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To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the tnanna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Am en,

Which echoes through the blest abode.

Which swells and sinks, and swells again,

Dies on the walls, hut lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;

That holy, heavenly melody;

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd.

And still the anxious tear would fall;

But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

Oft when tho world, with iron hands, Has bound me in its six-days' chain,

This bursts them, like the strong man's bands, And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn; The village bells, the shepherd's voice;

These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,

Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;

Ours be the prophet's car of fire,

That bears us to a Father's arms.

THOU HAST SWOBN BY THY GOD.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white han' o' thine,

And by all the lowing stars in heaven,

That thou wad aye be mine;

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And I hae s-worn by my God, my Jeanie,

And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a¹ the stars eown thick o'er heaven.

That thou shalt aye be mine.

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, An' the heart that wad part sic love;

But there's nae hand can loose my band,

But the finger o' God above.

Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield. And my claithing e'er so mean,

I wad la me up rich i' the faulds o' luve.

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me Far safter than the down;

And love wad winnow owre us hia kind kind wings. And sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve.

Come here, and kneel wi' me.

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' my God,

And I canna pray bat thee.

The mom-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers. The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie.

Our gude-man leans owre his kale-yard dyke,

And a blythe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be taen when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie,

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

BONNY LADY ANN.

Theee's kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gowd amang her hair;

Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,-

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Or what arm o' luve dare span

The honey lips , the creamy loof,

Or the waist o' Lady Anu?

She kisses the lips o' her bounie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip nor simple lip Mauu touch her Ladie mou';

But a broidered belt wiquot; a buckle o' gowd Her jimpy waist maun span;

0 she's an avmfu' fit for heaven,

My bonnie Lady Ann !

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers.

Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely she sits in the midst.

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheeks,

Wi' her milky milky han'.

An' her cheeks seem touched wi' the finger o' God; My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morningcloud is tassel'd wi' gowd,

Like my luve's broider'd cap,

An' on the mantle which my luve wears Are monie a gowden drap.

Her bonnie ee brae's a holie arch,

Cast by no earthly han',

An' the breath o' God's atween the lips 0' my bonnie Lady Ann!

1 am hsr father's gardener lad,

And poor poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My Lady comes, my Lady goes Wi' a fu' an' kindly han';

0 the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,

An' fa' on Lady Ann!

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SHE'S GONE TO DWELL IN HEAVEN.

She's gone to dwell in heaven, my lassie,

She's gone to dwell in heaven:

Te're owre pure, quo¹ the voice o' God, For dwelling out o' heaven!

0 what'll she do in heaven, my lassie ?

0 what'll she do in heaven?

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her,

An' took her frae us a'.

Low there thou lies, my lassie.

Low there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' «oon I'll follow thee, my lassie,

Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

Thou left me nought to covet ahin'.

But took gudeness' itself wi' thee.

1 looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

1 looked on thy death-cold face;

Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud.

An' fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I looked on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm;

But gone was the holy breath o' heaven To sing the evening psalm.

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There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,

There's naught but dust now mine; My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld, cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'?

THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN PRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.

O it's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e,

But the dear Marie I left ahin',

Wi' sweet baimies three.

My lanely hearth bum'd bonnie,

An' smiled my ain Marie;

I've left a' my heart behin'

In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer.

And the blossom to the bee;

But I'll win back—O never,

To my ain countree.

O I am leal to high Heaven,

Where soon I hope to be,

An' there I'll meet ye a' soon Frae my ain countree!

LEIGH HUNT (1784—1859).

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

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An angel, writing in a book of gold;—

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

'What writest thon?'—The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, ' The names of those who loves the Lord.' 'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low.

But cheerly still; and said, ' I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellowmen.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light. And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport.

And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side. And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride;

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show. Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled one on another. Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, 'Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!'

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same:

She thought, 'The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!

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King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory -will be mine!'

She dropped her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled;

Hequot;bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick ; return was quick; he soon regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! 'In truth!' cried Francis, 'rightly done!' and he rose from where he sat:

'No love,' quoth he, 'but vanity, sets love a task like that!'

JENNY'S KISS.

Jenny kissed me when we met.

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing dull, but add—

Jenny kissed me!

MUSIC.

When lovely sounds about my ears

Like winds in Eden's tree-tops rise. And make me, though my spirit hears,

For very luxury close my eyes: Let none but friends be round about, Who love the soothing joy like me, That so the charm be felt throughout, And all be harmony.

And when we reach the close divine,

Then let the hand of her I love Come with its gentle palm on mine.

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As soft as snow, or lighting dove; And let, by stealth, that more than friend

Look sweetness in my opening eyes; For only so such dreams should end, Or wake in Paradise.

BERNARD BARTON (1784—1849).

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day.

Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold. To evening's hues of sober gray,

Thy cup of paly gold;

Be thine the offering owing long

To thee, and to this pensive hour,

Of one brief tributary song.

Though transient as thy flower.

I love to watch, at silent eve,

Thy scattered blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive The influence of that sight.

I love at such an hour to mark

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while.

When cares and griefs the breast invade. Is friendship's animating smile In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup,

Glist'ning amid its dewy tears.

And bears the sinking spirit up Amid its chillling fears.

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But still more animating far,

If meek Religion's eye may trace, Even in thy glimmering earth-born star, The holier hope of Grace.

The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom

Expands to glad the close of day. So through the shadows of the tomb May break forth Mercy's ray.

JOHN WILSON (1785—1844).

MAGDALENE'S HYMN.

(from THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE).

The air of death breathes through our souls The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls. And says, 'Prepare to die.'

The face that in the morning sun We thought so wond'rous fair,

Hath faded, ere his course was run ,

Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave ,

With thin locks silvery-grey;

I see the child's bright tresses wave In the cold breath of clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,

Like music all ave gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said The life of life departs;

The body in the grave is laid,

Its beauty in our hearts.

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And holy midnight voices sweet Like fragrance fill the room,

And happy ghosts with noiseless feet Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright, From whoso dear aide they came!

—We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath The Plague may soon destroy;

We think on Thee, and feel in death A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years In the glory yet to come;

O idle grief! O foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair That weep themselves to rest;

We part with life—awake! and there The jewel in our breast!

HENRY KIRKE WHITE (1785—1806).

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine ,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's away, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

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lu this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Sweet scented flower! who'rt wont to bloom On January's front severe.

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song:

And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody, of death.

Come, funeral flower 1 who lov'st to dwell With the pale corpse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep.

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And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

MES SOUTHEY (1786-1854).

(CAROLIKE BOWLES)

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

Tread softly—bow the head—

In reverent silence bow— No passing bell doth toll-Yet an immortal soul Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed— One by that paltry bed—

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state: Enter—no crowds attend— Enter—no guards defend This palace-gate.

That pavement damp and cold

No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands Lifting with meagre hands A dying head.

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No mingling voices sound—

An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed—again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan.

O change—o wondrous change! —

Burst are the prison bars—

This moment there, so low,

tio agonised, and now Beyond the stars!

O change—stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod:

The sun eternal breaks—

The new immortal wakes—

Wakes with his God.

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM (1788-1845}.

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

'Look at the Clock!' quoth Winifred Pryce,

As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,

Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,

You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!

Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vowed to love and obey you?—

Out all night!

Me in a fright;

Staggering home as it's just getting light!

You intoxified brute!—you insensible block!—

Look at the Clock!—Do!—Look at the Clock!'

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean.

Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,

Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,

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And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes ;

A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit:

To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,

Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce Had one darling vice;

Remarkably partial to anything nice,

Nought that was good came to him amiss,

Whether to eat, or to driuk , or to kiss!

Especially ale—

If it was not too stale 1 really believe he'd have emptied a pail¹;

Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales;

To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Es, and a W.

That particular day,

As I've heard people say,

Mr. David Pryce bad been soaking his clay.

And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,

The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,

With a couple more soakers,

Thorough-bred smokers.

Both, like himself prime singers and jokers;

And long after day had drawn to a close,

And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose.

They were roaring out 'Shenkin!' and 'Ar hydd y nos;' While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,

Sang, 'We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!

What have we with day to do?

Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!' At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old ' Goat-in-Boots' showed them the door:

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And then came that knock,

And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, ' Look at the Clock!' For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three

That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan,

And often, among their pother and rout.

When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,

Prjce would drop a cool hint.

With an ominous squint At its case, of an 'Uncle' of his, who'd a 'Spout.'

That horrid word 'Spout'

No sooner was out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,

And with scorn on her lip.

And a hand on each hip,

'Spout' herself till her nose grew red at the tip. 'You thundering willin,

I know you'd be killing Your wife—ay, a dozen of wives—for a shilling!

You may do what you please,

You may sell my chemise,

(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock,)

But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!'

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;

But patience is apt to wear out at last',

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient.

So he threw it instead,

Direct at her head,

It knock'd off her hat;

Down she fell flat;

Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was—whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

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Or her tumble produced a concussion of brain,

I can't say for certain—but this I can,

When sobered by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne.

The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe,

As adding to grim Death's exploits such a Tast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality, And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,

With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce, to commence His 'ingenious defence,'

Made a ' powerful appeal' to the jury's ' good sense ' The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of ' Malice Prepense.quot;

The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He 'deplored'—he was 'apt to be rather too quick;' But, really, her prating Was so aggravating:

Some trifling correction was just what he meant:—all The rest, he assured them, was 'quite accidental!'

Then he calls Mr. Jones,

Who depones to her tones.

And her gestures, and hints about ' breaking his bones While Mr. Ap Morgan and Mr. Ap Rhys Declare the Deceased Had styled him ' a Beast,'

And swear they had witnessed with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict—'We find, So.rce her rightf

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THOMAS PRINGLE (1788—1S34).

PLEASANT TEVIOTDALE.

0 gentle wind, ('tis thus slie sings,)

That blowest to the west,

Oh, couldst thou waft me on thy wings To the land that I love best,

How swiftly o'er the ocean foam Like a sea-bird I would sail.

And lead my loved one blithely home. To pleasant Teviotdale!

From spicy groves of Malabar Thou greet'st me, fragrant breeze,

What time the bright-eyed evening star Gleams o'er the orange trees;

Thou com'st to whisper of the rose, And love-sick nightingale—

But my heart is where the hawthorn grows. In pleasant Teviotdale!

Oh that I were by Teviot side.

As, when in Springwood bowers,

1 bounded, in my virgin pride.

Like fawn among the flowers;

When the beauty of the budding trees, And the cuckoo's vernal tale.

Awoke the young heart's ecstasies, In pleasant Teviotdale!

Oh that T were whore blue-bells grow On Roxburgh's ferny lea!

Where gowans glent and corn-flowers blow Beneath the trysting tree;

Where blooms the birk upon the hill, And the wild rose down the vale,

And the primrose peeps by every rill, In pleasant Teviotdale.

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	Oh that I were where Cheviot-fells
	Rise o'er the uplands grey,
	Where moors are bright with heather-bells,
	And broom waves o'er each brae;
	Where larks are singing in the sky,
	And milkmaids o'er the pail.
	And shepherd swains pipe merrily.
	In pleasant Teviotdale!
	Oh! listen to my lay, kind love—
	Say, when shall we return
	Again to rove by Maxwell grove,
	And the links of Wooden-burn?
	Nay, plight thy vow unto me now,
	Or my sinking heart will fail —
	When I gaze upon thy pallid brow.
	Far, far from Teviotdale!
	Oh haste aboard! the favouring wind
Blows briskly from the shore;
Leave India's dear-bought dross behind
	To such as prize it more:
	Ah! what can India's lacs of gold
	To withered hearts avail?
	Then haste thee, love, ere hope wax cold .
	And hie to Teviotdale.
	BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (1790—1871).
	(barky coekwall).
	SONG.
	Here's a health to thee, Mary
	Here's a health to thee ;
	The drinkers are gone.
	And I am alone,
	Te think of home and thee, Mary.

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There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And many as frank and free;

And a few as fair,—

But the summer air Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,

And thy dimm'd and gentle eye;

And I've call'd on thy name When the night winds came.

And heard my heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,

And I'll be true to thee;

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.

the best op all good company.

Sisg!—Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah! who is this lady fine?

The vine, boys, the vine!

The mother of mighty wine.

A roamer is she O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!—who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah! who is this maid of thine? The grape, boys, the grape! Oh, never let her escape Until she be turned to wine. For better is she Than vine can be.

And very, very good company.

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Dream!—who dreams

Of the god who governs a thousand streams? Ah! who is this spirit fine ?

'Tia wine, boys, 'tis wine!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine. Oh, better is he Than grape or tree,

And the best of all good company.

SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING.

When the wind blows

In the sweet rose-tree,

And the cow lows

On the fragrant lea,

And the stream flows All bright and free,

'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me ;

quot;lis not for any one here, I trow:

The gentle wind bloweth,

The happy cow loweth,

The merry stream floweth.

For all below!

O the spring, the bountiful spring! She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Where come the sheep?

To the rich man's moor.

Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor.

Peasants must weep,

And kings endure;

That is a fate that none can cure: Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow: She bringeth bright hours.

She weaveth sweet flowers.

She dresseth her bowers,

For all below!

O the Spring, amp;c.

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SONG- POE TWILIGHT.

Hide me, 0 twilight air!

Hide me from thought, from care,

From all things foul or fair.

Until to-morrow!

To-night I strive no more; No more my soul shall soar: €ome, sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst pain and sorrow!

If I must see through dreams, Be mine Eljsian gleams.

Be mine by morning streams

To watch and wander;

So may my spirit east (Serpent-like) off the past.

And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder.

And should'st thou 'scape control. Ponder on love, sweet soul; On joy, the end and goal

Of all endeavour:

But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep for ever.

WOMAN.

Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, And her lip has lost all its faint perfume; And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair, And her cheek is pale,—but no longer fair.

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, Is struck with cold mortality;

And the smile that play'd ro ind her lip has fled. And every charm has now le.quot;t the dead.

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Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power, But left her all in her wintry hour;

And the crowds that swore for her love to die, Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh;— And this is man's fidelity!

Tis woman alone, with a purer heart,

Can see all these idols of life depart;

And love the mote, and smile and bless Man in his uttermost wretchedness.

LIFE.

We are bom; we laugh, we weep,

We love, we droop, we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?

Why do we live, or die?

Who knows that secret deep?—

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? 'i

Why do our fond hearts cling To things that die?

We toil—through pain and wrong;

We fight, and fly;

We love, we lose—and then, ere long'.

Stone-dead we lie.

O life! is all thy song 'Endure and—die?'

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KING DEATH.

King Death was a rare old fellow!

He sat -where no sun could shine;

And he lifted his hand so yellow, And pour'd out his coal-black wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

There came to him many a maiden,

Whose eyes had forgot to shine;

And widows, with grief o'erladen,

For a draught of his sleepy wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

The scholar left all his learning,— The poet his fancied woes;

And the beauty her bloom returning.

Like life to the fading rose.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

All came to the royal old fellow.

Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine

As he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in death's black wine.

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

THE BLOOD-HORSE.

Gamabka. is a dainty steed.

Strong, black, and of a noble breed; Full of fire, and full of bone,

With all his line of fathers known: Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. But blown abroad by the pride within; His mane is like a river flowing. And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night,

And his pace as swift as light:

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Look!- how round his straining throat

Grace and shifting beauty float;

Sinewy strength is on his reins

And the red blood gallops through his veins;

Richer, redder never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher

Than the Bourbon dare aspire,—

Douglas, Guzman , or the Guelph,

Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He—who hath no peer—was born

Here, upon a red March morn;

But his famous fathers, dead,

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred:

And the last of that great line

Seemed as of a race divine!

And yet—he was but friend to one

Who fed him at the set of sun,

By some lone fountain fringed with green:

With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived—(none else would he obey

Through all the hot Arabian day)—

And died untamed upon the sands

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

the stoemy petrel.

A thousand miles from land are we

Tossing about on the roaring sea;

From billow to bounding billow cast.

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:

The sails are scattered about like weeds,

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;

The mighty cables and iron chains.

The hull which all earthly strength disdains,

They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone,

Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down!

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From the base of the wave to the billows' crown,

Amidst the flashing and feathery foam,

The stormy petrel finds a home;

A home,—if such a place can be

For her who lives on the wide wide sea,

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeking her rocky lair

To warn her young, and teach them to spring,

At once o'er the waves on their stormy -wing!

O'er the deep! o'er the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The petrel telleth her tale in vain:

Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard:

Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;

Yet, he never falters;—so, petrel! spring Once more o'er the waves on the stormy wing.

DIBG-E.

Let the moaning music die,

Let the hope-deceived fly,

Turn'd by strong neglect to pain! Let the mind desert the brain,

Leaving all to dark decay.

Like a lump of idle clay!

They are gone who loved and—died,— The once lover and his bride;

Therefore we our sorrow weave Into songs;—yet wherefore grieve? Though they sleep an endless sleep, Why should we despair and weep? They are gone together:

They are safe from wind and weather, Lightning and the drowning rain, And the hell of earthly pain.

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They are dead;—or if they live,

There is One who can forgive,

Though a thousand errors ran Through the fond, false heart of man.

Let the moaning music perish! Wherefore should we strive to cherish Sorrow, like the desert rain?

Though we weep, we weep in vain! They are gone together.

Haply to the summer shores,— Where the bright and cloudless weather

Shineth, and for ever pours Music with the flooding light,

And the night doth chase the day. And the morn doth chase the night. Like a starry fawn away!

They are gone—where pleasure reigns Sinless on the golden plains,

Far above the scathing thunder, Far above the storms and jars Of earth, and live delighted under

The bright silence of the stars! Therefore let the music die,— Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly:

They are happy,—happier than We who, in the mask of man.

Pour our unvailing tears Over Beauty's number'd years!

THE NIGHTS.

Oh, the Summer night Has a smile of light.

And she sits on a sapphire throne; Whilst the sweet winds load her With garlands of odour.

From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

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But the Autumn night Has a piercing sight,

And a step both strong and free; And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the thunder, When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter night Is all cold and white,

And she singeth a song of pain; Till the wild bee hummeth, And the warm Spring cometh, When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the night brings sleep To the greenwoods deep,

To the birds of the woods its nest; To care soft hours.

To life new powers,

To the sick and the weary—rest!

THE SEA.

The sea! the sea 1 the open sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions' round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would never be;

With the blue above, and the blue below.

And silence whereso' e'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep.

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh! how I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide.

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When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,

And tells how goes the world below,

And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast,

Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was, and is to me;

For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

HENRY HART MILMAN (1791—1868). THE MERRY HEART.

I would not from the wise require The lumber of their learned lore;

Nor would I from the rich desire A single counter of their store.

For I have ease, and I have health,

And I have spirits —light as air;

And more than wisdom, more than wealth,— A merry heart, that laughs at care.

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Like other mortals of my kind ,

I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour

And sometimes have been half inclined To rate her for her ill behaviour.

But life -was short,—I thought it folly To lose its moments in despair;

So slipp'd aside from melancholy,

With merry heart, that laugh'd at care.

And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes Surprised me in a luckless season;

Tum'd all my mirth to lonely sighs, And quite subdued my better reason.

Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve, And love, you know, 's a reason fair;

And much improved, as I believe,

The merry heart, that laughs at care.

So now from idle wishes clear,

I make the good I may not find:

Adown the stream I gently steer, And shift my sail with every wind.

And half by nature, half by reason, Can still with pliant heart prepare,

The mind, attuned to every season, The merry heart, that laughs at care.

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream. Ye social feelings of the mind;

Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam , And let the rest good-humour find.

Yes,—let me hail and welcome give To every joy my lot may share;

And pleased and pleasing let me live With merry heart, that laughs at care.

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CHARLES WOLFE (1791—1823).

THE BUHIAL OF SIR JOHN MOOBE.

Not a drum -was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart vre hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down hia lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down.

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But left him alone with his glory.

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SONG.

Iï I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had past. The time would e'er be o'er,

And 1 on thee should look my last, And thon shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook. That I must look in vain!

But when I speak—thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now 1 feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art. All cold, and all serene—

I still might press thy silent heart. And where thy smiles have been!

While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave.

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art.

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn. And never can restore!

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MRS FELICIA HEMANS (1793—1835).

THE TRUMPET.

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacoo-pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire!

A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast;

And, hark! was that the sound of seas ? A king to war went past!

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call. And rises from the earth!

The mother on her firstborn son Looks with a boding eye; —

They come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride!

And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead?

THE TREASURES OP THE DEEP.

quot;What hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells?

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!

Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow colour'd shells.

Bright things which gleam uurecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

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Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold,

Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies..

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!

Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the depths have more!—thy wayes have rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!

Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,

Man yields them to decay!

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!

They hear not now the booming waters roar,—

The battle thunders will not break their rest.

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!

Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom.

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,— But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,— O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown!

Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore the dead!

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!

Restore the dead, thou sea!

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THE HOMES OP ENGLAND.

The stately Homes of England,

How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told;

Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!

How softly on their bowers,

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime

Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage Homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep.

Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair Homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall,

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May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God.

JOHN CL AREquot; (1793-.1861).

DAWNING OF GENIUS IN A PLOUGHBOY.

In those low paths which poverty surrounds,

The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds—

That necessary tool of wealth and pride—

While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side.

Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace

The opening beauties of a daisy's face;

Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,

The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;

And often bent, as o'er some magic spell,

He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell:

Raptures the while his inward powers inflame.

And joys delight him which he cannot name;

Ideas picture pleasing views to mind.

For which his language can no utterance find;

Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight,

Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;

So while the present please, the past decay,

And in each other, losing, melt away.

Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,

He feels enraptured, though he knows not why;

And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain.

And dwells on something which he can't explain.

The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed

Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;

Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain ,

And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.

So have I marked the dying ember's light,

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When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,

With glimmering glow oft redden up again,

And sparks crack brightening into life in vain;

Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,

Till faint, and fainting, the last twinkle dies.

Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart, Its painful pleasing feelings to impart;

Till by successless sallies wearied quite,

The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight: The wick, confined within its socket, dies.

Borne down and smothered in a thousand sighs.

THE TBUSH'S NEST.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush

Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy—and oft an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest.

And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, likfe heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shinings eggs as bright as flowers. Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:

And there I witnessed, in the summer hours. And brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

JOHN LOCKHART (1794—1854). NAPOLEON.

The mighty sun had just gone down

Into the chambers of the deep;

The ocean birds had upward flown,

Each in his cave to sleep;

And silent was the island shore.

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And breathless all the broad red sea, And motionless beside the door

Our solitary tree.

Our only tree, our ancient palm,

Whose shadow sleeps our door beside, Partook the universal calm,

When Buonaparte died.

An ancient man, a stately man,

Came forth beneath the spreading tree, His silent thoughts I could not scan.

His tears I needs must see.

A trembling hand had partly covered

The old man's weeping countenance, Yet something o'er his sorrow hovered.

That spake of war and France;

Something that spake of other days.

When trumpets pierced the kindling air. And the keen eye could firmly gaze

Through battle's crimson glare.

Said T, 'Perchance this faded hand.

When life beat high, and hope was youn By Lodi's wave, or Syria's sand,

The bolt of death hath flung.

Young Buonaparte's battle-cry

Perchance hath kindled this old cheek; It is no shame that he should sigh—

His heart is like to break!

He hath been with him young and old:

He climbed with him the Alpine snow; He heard the cannon when they rolled

Along the river Po.

His sword was as a sword, to leap At his accustomed leader's word;

I love to see the old man weep—

He knew no other lord.

As if it were but yesternight,

This man remembers dark Eylau; His dreams are of the eagle's flight

Victorious long ago.

The memories of worser time

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Are all as shadows unto him;

Fresh stands the picture of his prime—

The later trace is dim.

I entered, and I saw him lie

Within the chamber all alone;

I drew near very solemnly

To dead Napoleon.

He was not shrouded in a shroud—

He lay not like the vulgar dead—

Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud,

From his pale brow was fled.

He had put harness on to die,

The eagle star shone on his breast His sword lay bare his pillow nigh.

The sword he liked the best.

But calm, most calm, was all his face,

A solemn smile was on his lips.

His eyes were closed in pensive grace—

A most serene eclipse!

Ye would have said some sainted sprite

Had left its passionless abode—

Some man whose prayer at morn and night

Had duly risen to God.

What thoughts had calmed his dying breast

(For calm he died) cannot be known; Nor would I wound a warrior's rest,— Farewell, Napoleon!

HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849). SHE IS NOT PAIR.

She is not fair to outward view.

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light.

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But now her looks are coy and cold—

To mine they ne'er reply;

And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are sweeter far Than smiles of other maidens are.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797—1835) JEANTE MOBBISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget The love of life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,

May weel be black gin Yule;

But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond love grows cool.

0 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears!

They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.-

'Twas then we loved ilk ither weel,

Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time!—sad time!—twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink.

To lear ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair.

1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet.

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When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof.

What our wee heads could think.

What baith bent doun owre ae braid page,

Wi¹ ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

O mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said,

We cleeked thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays—

The schule then skaled at noon—

When we ran aff to speel the braes— The broomy braes o' Juue?

My head rins round and round about,

My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O' schule-time and o' thee.

Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' love!

Oh, lightsome days and lang.

When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms, sprang!

O mind ye, love, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its waters croon?

The simmer leaves hung owre our heads _r

The flowers burst round our feet.

And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whistled sweet.

The throssil whistled in the wood,

The burn sung to the trees.

And we with Nature's heart in tune.

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe aboon the burn.

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For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,

Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,

When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I bae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin o'er your heart grows great Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart. Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper as it rins,

The love o' life's young day.

0 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,

I've never seen jour face, nor heard The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee.

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 0' bygane days and me!

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THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY (1797-1839). OH, NO! WE NEVER MENTION HIM.

Oh, no! we never mention him, his name is never heard; My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word: From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret; And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see; But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me. 'Tis true that I behold no more the valley -where we met, I do not see the hawthorn-tree; but how can I forget?

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me,— The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set;— Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget.

They tell me he is happy now, the gayest of the gay;

They hint that he forgets me too,—but I heed not what they say ; Perhaps like me he struggles with each feeling of regret; But if he loves as I have loved, he never can forget.

THE FIRST GREY HAIR.

The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,

Sits gazing on her lovely face—ay, lovely even now:

Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care? Why steals that tear across her cheek?—She sees her first grey hair.

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face ; Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip. So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years; The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears ;

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The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,

And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife;—the lover of her youth May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth; A sense of slight—of loneliness- hath never banish'd sleep; Her life hath been a cloudless one;—then, wherefore doth she weep ?

She look'd upon her raven locks;—what thoughts did they recall? Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd for banquet or for ball;— They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check,

With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.

She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,

And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; She^ seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she prized so much.

And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem it not a crime For her to weep—when she beholds the first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase. And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane—

ïet though the blossom may not sigh to bud, and bloom again,

It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret ,

The Spring for ever gone—the Summer sun so nearly set.

Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy mirror tells the truth,

Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth; Go!—bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair; 'Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first grey hair!

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ROBERT POLLOCK (1799-1827). THE GENIUS OP BYRON.

{From the course of time).

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.

As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed.

And oped new fountains in the human heart.

Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,

In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,

Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;

He from above descending, stooped to touch

The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as tough

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest

At will with all her glorious majesty.

He laid his hand upon 'The Ocean's mane,'

And played familiar with his hoary locks:

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,

And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;

And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,

In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,

Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God ,

Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;

Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung

His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;

Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and stormsj

His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce

As equals deemed. All passions of all men ,

The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;

All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;

All creeds, all seasons , Time, Eternity;

All that was hated, and all that was dear;

All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,

He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;

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Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.

With terror now he froze the cowering blood.

And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;

Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;

But back into his soul retired, alone,

Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously

On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.

So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late

To desolation swept, retired in pride,

Exulting in the glory of his might.

And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed,

So he, through learning and through fancy, took

His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top

Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn,

As if he from the earth had laboured up;

But, as some bird of heavenly plumage fair.

He looked, which down from higher regions came,

And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED (1802—1839).

QUINCE.

Near a small village in the West,

Where many very worthy people Eat,jdrink, play whist, and do their best To guard from evil Church and Steeple,

There stood—alas! it stands no more !

A tenement of brick and plaster.

Of which, for forty years and four.

My good friend Quince was lord and master!

Welcome was he in hut and hall.

To maids and matrons, peers and peasants , He won the sympathies of all,

By making puns and making presents;

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Though all the parish was at strife,

He kept his counsel and his carriage.

And laughed and loved a quiet life,

And shrank from Chancery suits and marriage.

Sound was his claret and his head;

Warm was his double ale and feelings—

His partners at the whist-club said,

That he was faultless in his dealings.

He went to church but once a week;

Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him

An upright man, who studied Greek,

And liked to see his friends around him.

Asylums, hospitals, and schools.

He used to swear were made to cozen;

All who subscribed to them were fools.

And he subscribed to half-a-dozen;

It was his doctrine that the poor Were always able, never willing;

And so the beggar at the door

Had first abuse, and then a shilling.

Some public principles he had.

But was no flatterer, nor fretter;

He rapped his box when things were bad, And said, 'I cannot make them better!'

And much he loathed the patriot's snort. And much he scorned the placeman's shuffle.

And cut the fiercest quarrels short.

With—'Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle.'

For full ten years his pointer. Speed, Had couched beneath his master's table;

For twice ten years his old white steed Had fattened in his master's stable—

Old Quince averred upon his troth,

They were the ugliest beasts in Devon;

And none knew why he fed them both,

With his own hands, six days in seven.

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Whene'er they heard his ring or knock,

Quicker than thought, the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock,

And took up Mrs. Glasse and patterns; Adine was studying baker's bills;

Louisa looked the queen of knitters;

Jane happened to be hemming frills; And Bell, by chance, was making fritters.

But all was vain; and while decay

Came like a tranquil moonlight o'er him, And found him gouty still, and gay,

With no fair nurse to bless or bore him; His rugged smile, and easy chair.

His dread of matrimonial lectures.

His wig, his stick, his powdered hair.

Were themes of very strange conjectures.

Some sages thought the stars above

Had crazed him with excess of knowledge; Some heard he had been crossed in love,

Before he came away from college;

Some darkly hinted that his grace

Did nothing, great or small, without him, Some whisperd with a solemn face.

That there was something old about him!

I found him at threescore and ten,

A single man, but bent quite double. Sickness was coming on him then,

To take him from a world of trouble— He prosed of sliding down the hill.

Discovered he grew older daily;

One frosty day he made his will.

The next he sent for Dr. Bailey!

And so he lived—and so he-died!

When last I sat beside his pillow, He shook my hand—'Ah, me,' he cried, ¹ Penelope must wear the willow.

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Tell her I hugged her rosy chain

While life was flickering in the socket;

And say, that when I call again,

I'll bring a licence in my pocket.

'I've left my house and grounds to Fag— (I hope his master's shoes will suit him;)

And I've bequeathed to you my nag, To feed him for my sake—or shoot him.

The Vicar's wife will take old Fox—

She'll find him an uncommon mo user;

And let her husband have my box, My Bible, and my Asstnanshauser.

'Whether I ought to die or not

My doctors cannot quite determine;

It's only clear that I shall rot,

And be, like Priam, food for vermin.

My debts are paid; but Nature's debt Almost escaped my recollection!

Tom, we shall meet again; and yet I cannot leave you my direction!'

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON (1802—1838). THE TROUBADOUR.

He raised the golden cup from the board.

It sparkled with purple wealth.

He kissed the brim her lip had prest And drank to his ladye's health.

Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name,

To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine;

Ever the smile of beauty should light.

The victor's blood-red wine.

There are some flowers of brightest bloom Amid thy beautiful hair.

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Give me those roses, they shall be The favour I will wear.

For ere their colour is wholly gone,

Or the breath of their sweetness fled,

They shall be placed in thy curls again, But dyed of a deeper red.

The warrior rode forth in the morning light And beside his snow-white plume

Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,

Like pearls on their crimson bloom.

The maiden stood on her highest tower. And watched her knight depart;

She dashed her tear aside, but her hand Might not still her beating heart.

All day she watched the distant clouds Float on the distant air,

A crucifix upon her neck.

And on her lips a prayer.

The sun went down, and twilight came With her banner of pearly grey,

And then afar she saw a band Wind down the vale their way.

They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks Were their crimson colours borne;

And a stranger pennon drooped beneath, But that was bowed and torn.

But she saw no white steed first in the ranks, No rider that spurred before;

But the evening shadows were closing fast, And she could see no more.

She turned from her watch on the lonely tower In haste to reach the hall.

And as she sprang down the winding stair. She heard the drawbridge fall.

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A hundred harpa their welcome rung,

Then paused, as if in fear;

The ladye entered the hall, and saw Her true knight stretched on his bier.

GERALD GRIFFIN (1803—1840). THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

She once was a lady of honour and wealth,

Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,

And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revell'd around her—love shone at her side. And gay was her smile, as the glunce of a bride; And light was her step , in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace.

That call'd her to live for the suffering race; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,

Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, 'I come.' She put from her person the trappings of pride. And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride. Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved,— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost.

That beauty that once was the song and the toast— No more in the ball-room that figure we meet. But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name. For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;

Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth.

For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem

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Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;

That voice that once erho'd the eong of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,

Is wet with thé tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed a pallet—her trinkets a bead,

Her lustre—one taper that serves her to read; Her sculpture—the crucifix nail'd by her bed, Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head; Her cnshion—the pavement, that wearies her knees. Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease;

The delicate lady lives mortified there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind.

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined,

Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.

She strengthens the weary-she comforts the weak,

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;

Where want and affliction on mortals attend,

The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath ,

Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapour of death;

Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.

How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;

How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,

For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

Behold her, ye wordly! behold her, ye vain!

Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;

Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days. Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.

Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men,—

Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,

How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

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ROBERT NICOLL (1814—1837). WE ABE BRETHBEN A'.

A happy bit hame this auld world would be,

If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree, An' ilk said to his neighour, in cottage an' ha',

'Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.'

I kenna why ane wi' anither should fight.

When to 'gree would make a' body cosie an' right. When man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way ava To say, 'Gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.'

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,

And I maun drink water while you may drink wine; But we baith ha'e a leal heart unspotted to shaw: Sae gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride; Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw; Then gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Ye would scorn to do falsely by woman or man; I haud by the right, aye, as well as I can;

We are ane in our joys, our affections an' a';

Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; An' mine has done for me what mithers can do; We are ane, hie an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa: Sae gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; Hame!—0, how we love it, an' a' that are there!

Frae the pure air o' heaven the same life we draw— Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Frail, shakin' Auld Age will soon come o'er us baith, An' creepin' alang at his back will be Death;

Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':

Come, gi'e me your hand—we ahe bketheen a'.

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ALICE.

My breast is preas'd to thine, Alice,

My arm is round thee twined; Thy breath dwells on my lip, Alice.

Like clover-scented wind:

Love glistens in thy sunny e'e,

And blushes on thj¹- brow;

Earth's heaven is here to thee and me. For we are happy now!

Thy cheek is warm and saft, Alice, As the summer laverock's breast; And peace sleeps in thy soul, Alice,

Like the laverock on its nest!

Sweet! lay thy heart aboon my heart,

For it is a' thine ain;

That morning love it gi'es to thee,

Which kens nae guile or stain!

Ilk starn in yonder lift, Alice,

Is a love-lighted e'e,

Fill'd fu' o' gladsome tears, Alice,

While watching thee and me.

This twilight hour the thoughts run back,

Like moonlight on the streams.

Till the o'erladen heart grows grit Wi' a' its early dreams!

Langsyne amang the hills, Alice,

Where waves the breckans green, I wander'd by the burn, Alice,

Where fairy feet had been,—

While o'er me hung a vision sweet,

My heart will ne'er forget—

A dream o' summer-twilight times When flowers wi' dew were wet!

thought on a' the tales, Alice, 0' woman's love and faith;

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Of truth that smiled at fear, Alice, And love that conquer'd death;

Affection blessing hearts and homes.

When joy was far awa'

And fear and hate; but love, 0 love! Aboon and over a'!

And then I thought ■wi' me, Alice, Ane walk'd in beauty there—

A being made for love, Alice,

So pure, and good, and fair—

Who shared my soul—my every hour 0' sorrow and o' mirth;

And when that dream was gone, my heart Was lonely on the earth!

Ay, lonely grew the world, Alice— A dreary hame to me;

Without a bush or bield, Alice,

Or leafy sheltering tree;

And aye as sough'd life's raging storm, Wi' keen and eerie blaw,

My soul grew sad, and cold my heart, I wish'd to be awa'.

But light came o'er my way, Alice, And life grew joy to me;

The daisy in my path, Alice,

Unclosed its gentle e'e;

Love breath'd in ilka wind that blew. And in ilk birdie's sang;

Wi' sunny thoughts o' summer time The blithesome heart grew thrang.

My dreams o' youth and love, Alice,

Were a' brought back again;

And hope upraised its head, Alice,

Like the violet after rain:

A sweeter maid was by my side Than things of dreams can be,

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First, precious love to her I gave, And, Alice thou wert she!

Nae lip can ever speak, Alice, Nae tongue can ever tell

The aumlesa love for thee, Alice,

With which my heart doth swell!

Pure as the thoughts of infants' souls. And innocent and young,

Sic love was never tauld in sangs, Sic aangs were never sung!

My hand is on thy heart, Alice, Sae place thy hand on mine;

Now, welcome weal and woe, Alice; Our love we canna tine.

Ae kiss! let others gather gowd Frae ilka land and sea;

My treasure in the richest yet, For, Alice, I ha'e thee!

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NOTES.

Note 1, I^age 1.

CorydUm. — A shepherd, in the pastorals of Theocritus and Virgil. The name is used to indicate a love-sick swain.

Note 3, i'liKe S.

Tityrm. — Any shepherd; here Virgil.

Note 3, Pago 3.

No, cast by fortune on a frowning coast. — Crahbe was born at Aldbo-rnugh, a little seaport town in Suffolk. 'His first recollections were of a flat and ugly coast, bordered with slimy rock-pools, washed by discoloured waves, and tenanted only by a race of wild, amphibious, weather-beaten men, who, for the most part, added to their lawful calling as fishermen, the yet more hazardous occupation of the smuggler.'

Note 4, Page 3.

Ajax, King of Salamis, the bravest of the Greeks next to Achilles, was a man of gigantic stature. Hence the poet uses the name for a strong, powerful man.

Note 3, Page 6.

With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. — A pauper, who, being nearly past his labour, is employed by different masters for a length of time, proportioned to their occupations.

Note O, Page lO.

Lammas means loaf-mass, or feast of first fruits; this feast is celebrated ou the l»¹ day of August.

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Note V, E'ti^e 30.

Tone. — A river in Somersetshire, at no great distance from the Quantock Hills.

Note 8, IPage 37'.

Laodamia. — The wife of Protesilaus, who, after being killed at Troy, was brought back to her, at her prayer, by Mercury, from the lower world for three hours, and when he had again to descend, she expired.

JNTote O, IPa^e 39.

Parcce. — Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropas, the three Fates, or Parcse, presided over all events, and were superior even to Jupiter. They were generally respresented as lame, aged women, or grave maidens.

Note lO, 39.

Erebus. — A deity of hell, son of Chaos and Darkness. Poets often use the word for the dark region through which the soul passed into Elysium.

Note 11, lipase 40.

Alcestis. — The wife of Admetus, king of Pherae in Thessaly. Apollo tended the flocks of this king for nine years, and the Fates granted him that Admetus should never die if his father, mother, or wife, gave up life for him; Alcestis did, but she was brought back from the nether world by Hercules.

Note 13, fa-e 40.

Medea, the daughter of .Eetes, king of Colchis, fell in love with Jason, helped him to rescue Ihe golden fleece, and fled with him to Greece, where by her magic art she restored ^Eson, the father of Jason, to youth.

Note 13, Fage -lo.

Swale, Ure. By the junction of these rivers the Ouse is formed.

Note 14, I'ase 03.

Proteus. — An old marine god, who tended Neptune's flocks of seals, for which he was rewarded with the gift of prophecy. Any one who wished to consult him had to seize him at midday, when he came ashore to sleep in the shade of the rocks; but as soon as he was caught he assumed every imaginable shape, as a tiger, lion, fire, whirlwind, or torrent to terrify his assailant and compel his release; but if firmly held he resumed his proper form, and gave the desired information.

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Note 15, Page 03.

Iriton. — A sea-god, son of Neptune ami Amphritrite; generally represented half-man, half-dolphin, and blowing a shell.

Note 10, Page 05.

Albatros. — The largest of web-footed birds, called by sailors the Cape Sheep from its frequenting the Cape of Good Hope. It gorges itself, and then sits motionless upon the waves. It is said to sleep in the air, because its flight is a gliding without any apparent motion of its long wings. Sailors say it is fatal to shoot an albatross.

Note 1T, Fage 88.

Bushes. — In olden times the floors of halls and chambers were strown with Tushes.

Note 18, T'age 141.

Witch-elm . . . Saint Fillans spring. — The witch-elm is the mountain or broad-leaved elm. Forked branches of this tree were anciently used as divining rods.

Saint-Fillan, a Scottish saint of the ninth century, has given his name to many a fountain, chapel, and place in Scotland.

ilonan, a Scotch christian martyr about the close of the fourth century.

Note 19, Page 143.

Glenartney, etc. — The stag hunt takes place in the Highlands of Perthshire, and the lakes, mountains, and places mentioned in Caato I are situated in this shire. Between Lochs Katrine and Achrat/ lie the Trosachs, i. e. the rugged country, and in the southwest of Perthshire is Menteith, a district watered by the river Teith.

Ben means mountains; loch means lake; glen means valley Vam-var (pron Ua-var) is the highest point of a chain of hills; the name means 'the great den' and here robbers once found a home, and it was at one time the abode of a giant.

Loch Katrine is considered to have been named from the Catterans or wild robbers who once haunted its shores.

Note SO, Page 140.

Shinars plain. — An allusion to the Tower of Babel

Note 31, Page 150.

Naiad. — A Naiad was a water-nymph or goddess, fabled to preside over rivers and springs.

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Grace. — The Graces were three in number, viz: — Aglaia, Thalia, and Eiiphrosyne. They were attendants on Venus, and were supposed to embody, next to her, the highest idea of female beauty, and to have the power of conferring it on others.

Nquot;ote SS, Page 131.

Snood. — A fillet or ribbon with which maidens in Scotland bound their hair. It had an emblematical signification, and applied to their maiden character.

Note 23, l?ase 133.

Old Allan-bone. — The harper or bard in the household of Douglas. Down to the middle of the eighteenth century the minstrel retained in the service of the Highland chiefs was looked upon as an honoured member of the household.

Note Ï2-1, lr*Q.ge 136.

1'erragus and Ascalart. — Two giants of old romance. Ferragus slain by Orlando is the subject of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. Ferragus was 40 ft high and possessed the strength of twenty men. Ascabart figures in the story of Bevis of Hampton. His height was said to be 30 feet.

Note 33, Fase 137'.

The knight of Suowdoun. — Snowdoun was a name given by some old writers to the town of Stirling

Note 96, !E*age 160,

That exiled race i. e. the Douglases whose estates had been forfeited, and who had been forbidden to come within six miles of the king's presence, The Douglas of this poem is not historic.

Note ay. Page 163.

BothcelVs hall. — Bothwell castle was the principal residence of the Douglas family.

Note 38, Page 166.

The Lady of the Bleeding Heart. — The Bleeding Heart was the cognizance of the Douglas family. They carried it in consequence of the commission given by king Kobert Bruce to 'the good Lord James' to carry his heart to the Holy Land.

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Note SO, IP age 167',

Sfrafhspsy. — A dance in which two persons are engaged; denominated from the country of Strathspey, in Scotland, probably as having been first used there.

Note 30, IPage 167.

hi Holy Rood a Jchight he slew. — Holyrood House, once the royal place, was at the time of the murder a sanctuary.

Note 31, IPage löT'.

Dispensation. — Roderick and Ellen being first cousins could not marry without the express permission of the Pope. This permission is called a dispensation.

Note ÖÖ, IPage 168.

Maronnans cell. — The cell or chapel of Saint Maronnan, Maronoch, or Marnoch, about whose sanctity very little is now remembered, was situated at the eastern extremity of Loch Lomond.

Note 33, Fage 168.

Bracklinn. — A beautiful cascade.

Note 34, JPase 169.

Tine-man. — Tine means lose. Archibald, the third earl of Douglas was very unlucky in his enterprises; he tinql or lost his followers in every battle which he fought.

Note 35, linage 169.

Hotspur. — A name given to Harry Percy who was slain in the battle of Shrewsbury 1403.

Note 36, IPage 170.

Beltane Game, — A festival celebrated in Scotland on the of May. Fires were kindled on the hills to welcome the return of the sun, and the young people danced round these fires and made merry.

Note 37, JPase 17Xgt;. ,

Pibroch. — A Highland air, suited to the particular passion which the musician would either excite or assuage; generally applied to martial music.

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Note 38, Page ITO.

Chanter. — The pipe of the bag-pipe.

Note 30, Page 171.

Gathering. — A martial air in which the movements oC a battle, the march, the conflict, the flight, the pursuit, etc in imitative sounds are heard.

Note 40, Page 175.

Blantyre. — The priory of Blantyre was built on a rock opposite Both-well castle.

Note 41, Page lyo.

Ptarmigan. — The Ptarmigan (pr. tarmigan) tarns white in winter.

Note 48. Page IT'S.

Boost» to have tamed the Border-side. — In 1529 James V made a convention at Edinburgh, for the purpose of considering the best made of quelling the Border robbers, who, during the licence of his minority, and the troubles which followed, had committed many exorbitances. An expedition was accordingly formed, and many of the most noted freebooters were seized and executed.

Note 43, Page 183.'

Henchman. — A confidential attendant who was expected to be ready on all occasions to hazard his life for his chief. At drinking-bouts he stood behind his seat, at his haunch, whence the name is derived, and watched the conversation, to see if any one offended his patron.

Note 44, Page 183.

The Fiery Cross. — When a chieftain designed to summon his clan, upon any sudden or important emergency, he stew a goat, and making a cross of any light wood, scared its extremities in the fire, and extinguished them in the blood of the animal. This was called the Fiery Cross, also Crean Tarigh, or the Cross of Shame, because disobedience to what the symbol implied, inferred infamy. It was delivered to a swift and trusty messenger, who ran full speed with it to the next hamlet, where he presented it to the principal person , with a single word, inplying the place of the rendezvous. Ho who received the symbol was bound to send it forwards with equal despatch to the next village; and thus it passed with incredible celerity through all the districts which owed allegiance to the chief, and also among his allies and neighbors,

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if the danger was common to them. At sight of the Fiery Cross, every man, from sixteen years old to sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged instantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutrement, to the place of rendezvous.

Note 45, I'liJie ISO.

The River Demon, or river-horse, for it is that form which he commonly assumes, is an evil and malicious spirit, delighting to forbode and to witnest calamity.

The moontide hag, a tall, emaciated, gigantic female figure, is supposed in particular to haunt the district of -vnoidart.

A goblin, dressed in antique armour, and having one hand covered with blood, is a tenant of the neighbouring forest.

Other spirits of the desert, frightful in shape and malignant in disposition, are believed to frequent different mountains and glens of the Highlands, where any unusual appearance, produced by mist, or the strange lights that are sometimes thrown upon particular objects, never fails to present an apparition to the imagination of the solitary and melancholy mountaineer.

Note 46, Page ISO.

The Ben-Shie, a female fairy, whose lamentations were supposed to announce the death of a chieftain. Most great families in the Highlands had such a domestic fairy who took an interest in their prosperity, and in whose appearance 'at the appointed time' they firmly believed.

Note 4T, Page ISO.

Sounds, too, had come, etc. — A presage of the kind alluded to in the text, is still believed to announce death to an ancient Highland family. The spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is heard to gallop along a stony bank, and then to ride thrice round the family residence, ringing the fairy bridle, and thus intimating the approaching calamity.

Note 4S, Page lOl.

Coir-XJriskin. — Coir means den; the Urisk, a figure between a goat and a man. Hence the name means the den of the wild or shaggy men.

Beala-nam-bo, means the pass of cattle.

Note 40, Page 208.

The Tag hair m. — A superstitious mode of inquiring into futurity. The ceremonies attending it are described in stanza V. The word means the Oracle of the Hide. •

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Note SO, Page SOS.

The Hero s Targe. — A rock in the forest of Glenfinlas, said to have at one time afforded refuge to an outlaw.

üSTote 51, Pase 314.

Elfin king. — The Elves of the Highlands, though called 'Men of Peace' were extremely envious of the happiness of mankind. and peculiarly jealous of any infringement of their forest rights. The Men of Peace wore green habits, and were supposed to take offence when any mortal ventured to assume their favourite colour. If a mortal fallen into their power had heen christened, they gave him a certain precedence, and allowed him to hold converse with other mortals.

Note 52, Page 323.

A stag uf ten is a stag having ten branches on his antlers.

Note 53, Page 339.

Gael. — The Scottish Highlander calls himself Gael or Gaul, and terms the Lowlanders, Sassenach, or Saxons.

Note 54, Page 331.

The 'Regent's sight. — This regent was the Duke of Albany.

Note 55, Page 336.

Daughter of three mighty lakes, etc. — The three lakes are Loch Katrine, Loch Achray, and Loch Vennachar. The torrent discharging itself from Loch Vennachar, the lowest of the three lakes, llows through a flat and extensive moor, called Bochastle. This moor is supposed to have been occupied by the Roman general Agricola.

Note 56, Page 23'r.

All van/ageless I stand. — Roderick threw down his target or targe,i. e. a shield of light wood covered with strong leather, and studded with brass or iron; not wishing to have any advantage over his adversary who was without such a weapon of defense. A generosity not often shown among duellists of former times

Note 57-, Page 343.

Merry morrice-dancers. — Morrice is a corruption of Moorish. The mor-rice-dance is said to have been derived from the Moors in Spain. The dancers

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had bells fastened to their feet aud legs, and sometimes also to their caps and other parts of their dress, and their chief duty was to skip so that the bells played tunefully.

Note 38, Page 243.

The burghers hold their sports to-day. — Every place in Scotland had its solemn play, or festival, when feats of archery were exhibited, and prizes distributed to those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the bar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the period. James V's partiality to those popular amusements, was one cause of his acquiring the title of The Commons' King.

Note 50, Page 3 J O.

The Ladies'¹ Hock. — A small hill from which the court beheld the Tournaments and other military games.

Note 60, Page 353.

Stout Earl William. — The Douglas who was stabbed by James II, at Stirling Castle.

Note 01, Page 353.

These drew not for their fields the sword. — James V was the first to introduce the service of a number of mercenaries, who formed a body-guard, called the Foot-Band.

Note 63, Page 350.

Gleemaiden. — The duty of the gleemaiden was tumbling and dancing.

Note 03, Page 303,

Beat an Duine. — This name means The Pass of the Grave. A skirmish actually took placo at this pass, but many years afterwards when Cromwell invaded Scotland.

Note 04, Page 303.

Vaward. — In advance of the main army.

Note 05, Page 304.

Tinchel. — A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought great quantities of deer together. — Een klop-ot drijfjacht.

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Note GO , Page 307.

Bonnet-jiieces. — A gold coin of James V, so called because on it the king is represented wearing a bonnet.

Note OT, Page S84.

luuisfail. — The ancient name of Ireland.

Note 08, Fage S84,

Beneath De Bourgo's battle stem. — The house of O'Connor were the most formidable enemies to the usurpations of the English and many a victory they gained over them. Though ultimately conquered by the English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion; viz, when Walter de Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athrunree had become so insolent as to bid defiance to all rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs, Aeth O'Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathol, surnanied of the bloody hand (page 286), rose against the usurper and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle.

Note CO y i*age S8S.

Shieling. — A rude hut.

Morat. — A drink made of the juice of the mulberry mixed with honey.

Note TO, Page S86.

Taras -psaltery. — The psaltery of Tara was the great national register of Ireland. Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of the land.

Seal-fires. — Fires lighted in honour of the sun (Baal or Belus) on the liill tops by the Irish. — See Note 30.

Note 71, Page 387, 288.

Clarshech is the Irish harp. Baton is a fortification. Vlla-lulla, the Irish wail for the dead.

Note 73, Page 380.

Go to Athrunree. — An important battle was fought here, August 10, 1315, which decided the subjection of Ireland. — See Note 68.

Note 73, Page S08.

Exile of Erin. — The person here alluded to was Anthony Mc Cann, exiled

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for being implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Campbell met him at Hamburgh.

Erin go bragh means Ireland for ever.

hrln mavournin is Ireland ray darling.

Note Y l, Fage 300.

Water-wraith. — The evil spirit of the waters. — See Note 45.

Note 75, Fage 303.

Miller. — Joe Miller, a comedian, the supposed author of a book entitled Joe Millers Jest.

Jeffrey, one of the founders of The Edinburgh Review, of which he was editor from 1803—1829.

Maro, — Virgil, whose name was Publius Virgilius Maro

Joan of Arc, Thalaba, and Modoc are poems by Southey.

Note Te, Page 304.

Tom Thumb. — The little knight at king Arthur's court, so well known for quot;his ' marvellous acts of manhood.'

Berkley Ballads. — In 'The Old Woman of Berkeley an aged lady is carried away by Beelzebub on a high trotting horse?

Shake off toil and trouble etc. — Two lines of Stanza I of a ballad 'The Tables Turned' —

Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks;

Why ail this toil and trouble?

Up, up, my friend, and quit your books,

Or surely you'll grow double.

Note 77, r»age 305.

A pixy for a muse refers to Coleridge's Songs of Pixies, i.e. Devonshire Fairies; To elegize an ass, to his poem 'Lines to a young Ass.'

Wonder-working Lewis. — Matthew Gregory Lewis M. P., author of the Monk, Castle Spectre, and other wild romantic tales.

St. Lake, patron of painters and physicians.

Note 78, Pase 300.

Little. — Thomas Moore whose first poems were published under the name of Thomas Little.

Note 70, Fage 300.

My little page. — This little page was Robert Rushton, the son of one of

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Lord Byron's tenants. Seeing that the boy was 'sorrowful' at the separation from his parents. Lord Byron on reaching Gibraltar, sent him hack to England, nnder the care of his old servant Murray.

Note SO, Page SOT.

My staunch yeoman. — William Fletcher, Byron's faithful valet, who after a service of twenty years received his master's last words at Missolonghi.

Note 81, Fage 309.

Our Lady's house of woe. — A convent on the summit of the rock. Below at some distance is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den.

Note 83, 3?age 313.

Which stretched his father etc. — The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at Quatre-Bras, received his death-wound at Jena.

Cameron's gathering. — See Note 39.

Sir Evan Cameron, lord of Lochiel and his grandson Donald, were distinguished for great personal prowess and social virtues. The former was Burnamed The Ulysses of the Highlands, the latter was called The Gentle Lochiel.

Note 83, fage 333.

Psyche. — A beautiful maiden beloved by Cupid, who visited her every night, but left her at sunrise. Her sister, in jealousy, told her that her midnight lover was a monster, and Psyche, to ascertain the truth, one night lit the lamp and went to look at him. A drop of hot oil fell on his shoulder, woke lim, and he fled. Psyche, disconsolate, wandered about, became the slave of Venus, who treated her most cruelly; but ultimately she was married to Cupid, and became immortal.

Note 84, Page 335.

The Niobe of nations. — Niobe was the wife of Amphion, king of Thebes. She was proud of the number of her children, and gloried over Latona who had only two, Apollo and Diaua, but these two, on that account slew all the offspring of Niobe. Jupiter then changed Niobe into a rock, from which a ri.vulet, supplied by her tears, continually flowed.

Tully. — Cicero, whose name was Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Note 85, Page 337.

Nemesis. — The goddess of retribution or vengeance.

Orestes, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra avenged his father's murder

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(murdered on his return from Troy by his wife and her lover) by killing his mother. For this matricide he was persecuted and rendered mad by the avenging Furies.

Note 86, Page 338.

Janus glance. — Janus is represented as a young man with two faces, as acquainted with the past and the future.

Note SV, Fase 340.

Giant sons. — See Genesis ch VI. verses 2 and 4.

Note 88, Fage 33«.

The Prisoner of Chilian. — The story related in this poem is founded on the imprisonment of Bonnivard, one of the men who fought and laboured for the freedom of Geneva, against the Duke of Savoy. After many misfortunes he was taken prisoner, and confined without a trial, for six years in the Castle of Chillon. The Bernese rescued him, and he afterwards attained to great honour in Geneva. The castle of Chillon is situated on an island at the eastern extremity of the L?ke of Geneva, near where the Rhone enters the lake.

Note 80, Page 3ro.

Züvf fioC, icyecrü. — My life, I love you.

Note 0O , Page 384.

Tara's halls. — See Note 70.

Note Ol, Page 385.

Rich and rare weie the gems she wore. — This ballad is founded on the following anecdote: — The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value, and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of »11 the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels.

Note OS, Page 304,

JPeri. — Peris are fairy-like beings of Eastern mythology; they are the

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offspring of fallen spirits, and with a wand direct the pure in mind the way to heaTen.

The golden floods. — The Altan kol or Golden Kiver of Thibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-see-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it.

IVoie !gt;••!, l'iijne 393.

Flung from angel hands-. — The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the fire-brands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyrean or verge of the heavens.

Pillars of Chilminar. — The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Bal-bec were built by Genii, foi the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immeuse treasures, which still remain there.

Note O l, Pase 306.

The Isles of Perfume. — The isles of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix, which have sunk in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations.

King Jams hid. — Jamshid, king of the Genii, famous for a golden cup full of the elixer of life. This cup, hidden by the genii, was discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis.

Note 05, Page 300,

Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones. — With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni.

quot;Tis he of Gazna. — Mahmood of Gazna of Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the ll'h century. It is reported that the hunting equipage of Sultan Mahmood was so magnificent that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds, each of which wore a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls.

Note 06, Page 306.

Zenana. — The part of a dwelling appropriated to women.

Note 05', JPage 308.

Afric's lunar Mountains. — The Mountains of the Moon, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant.

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Note 08, Page 300.

The lonely bird, etc. — In the East they suppose the Phoenix, after living one thousand years, to build himself a funeral pile, to sing a melodious air, to flap his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and to consume himself.

Note 00, Page 403.

The starry bowls. — On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy happiness drink the crystal wave.

Note lOO, Page 1 O S.

On that great Temple. — The temple of the Sun at Balbec.

Note lOl, Page 40S.

Imaret. — A kind of inn where pilgrims are received gratuitously for a space of three days.

Note 1.0S, Page -VOO.

Eblis. — The ruler of the evil genii or fallen angels.

Note 103, Page lOTquot;.

There's a drop etc. — The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

Note 104, Page -t OV.

Shaduiiam. — The Country of Delight — the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

Note 105, Page - i OH.

Tooba tree. — Tooba means eternal happiness. The tree Tooba stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet.

Note lOG, Page 430.

St Agnes'' Eve. — St Agnes' Eve was kept by the English, much as Hallowe'en was by the Scots, as a period of divination, or seeking a knowledge of futurity. After fasting the whole day, upon going to bed, an egg was filled

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with salt and eaten, which occasioned a great thirst. The vessel the maiden dreamed of drinking from signified according to situation and circumstances, who would be her husband.

Beadsman. — A Bede-house is a dwelling-place for poor religious persons, raised near the church in which the founder was interred, and for whose soul they were required to pray. A beadsman or bede-man, an inmate of a bede-house or alms-house.

Note lOr, I*age 441.

Hamadryad. — A wood-nymph, feigned to live and die with the tree to which it was attached.

JVote 108, Page 443.

Lyrinx. — A nymph of Arcadia, the daughter of the river Ladon. Flying from Pan, she was, at her own request, turned into a reed.

Note 1O0, Fage 443.

Dryope. — A nymph of Arcadia, the mother (Mercury was supposed to be the father) of Pan.

Note HO, Page 433—454.

Winsome, comely, engaging. Bonny, handsome. To snood, to bind up the hair with a fillet. Pearlin, lace. Plenishing, household furniture. Mickle, much. Hither, mother. Glaikit, giddy. Flack, small copper coin. Gear, goods, stuffs. Savins, good manners. Tocher, dowry. Bairn, child. Coict, a strong stick. Daddy, father. Chiel, young man. Maun, must. Douce, modest. Blaw, blow. Baith, both. Greet, to weep. Weel waled, well chosen. Ween, think. Toom, empty. Blink, glance. E'en, eyes. Tag, a long thin slice, (slip). Syne, then. Mawkin, hare. Uoose, to extol.

Note 111, Page 406 and 40'}'.

Laird, lord, proprietor. Braiv, fine. Fashwus, troublesome. Je, only, one. Tocherless, without a dowry. Cannily, gently. Ben, into the room (binnen). Laigh, low. Daft, foolish. Waur, worse. 'lappit, crested.

Note 113, Page 40'!' and 468.

Caller, fresh, new caught. Bonnie, handsome, nice. Halesome, wholesome. Pair, poor. Mither, mother. Braw, fine. Spring, a cheerful tune on a musical instrument. Goio. a Scottish violinist famous for playing the livelier airs known as strathspeys and reels.

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Note 113, Pase 400.

Gangs, goes. Waefc? sorrowful. Dee, die. Laverock, lark.

Note 114, Page 4^IJ'S and 473.

Bonny, handsome. Yor ling, yellow-hammer (geelvink). Hittdberrg, raspberry, or bramble-berry. Minny, mother. Shaw, a piece of ground which becomes suddenly flat at the bottom of a hill or steep bank. Greet, weep. Bedesman, See Note 106. Gloaming, evening. Reek, smoke. Wee, small. Ingle, fire. Lowed, flafned. Eiry leme, fear inspiring blaze. Holt, wood. })L'n, hollow I.inn, waterfall, llahitome. wholesome. Joup, petticoat. .Stevi, bright, shining. At*, eye. Speer, to inquire. Eidenl, diligent.

Note 115, I*age 474 and 4^IJ'S.

Ilk, each. Kerned, combed. Nuriie, nurse. Kyth, appear. Gleid, fire, a burning coal. Elyed, vanished.

Note lie, F age ■17'« and 475'.

Linked, quickly moving. Marbled, variegated. Leifu, discreet. Hundit, incited. Sair, sore. Girned, grinned. Weir, war. Weening, thinking. Precf, proof.

Note lir, Page 478 and 470.

Gowled, howled. Gecked, to toss the head disdainfully. Aries, earnest money. Claught, laid hold of eagerly and suddenly. Swink, labour. Brainzel, to make unequal exertions. Mooted wing, wing deprived of the feathers. Maen, mien. Norland, belonging to the North country. Wad, would. Lane, alone. Byson, wild ox.

Note 118, Page 480.

Bug/it, enclosure. Faulds, fold. Crooned, hummed. Corby, raven. Uouf, haunt. Raike, the extent of a course or walk. Tod, fox. Hern, heron. At tour, over. Torhooyed, forsook.

Note 119« Page 483.

Psyche. — See Note 83.

Note ISO, Page 511 and 513.

Lowing, flaming. Foul fa' the^ hands, evil befall the hands. Maun, must. Bield, hut. Claithing, clothes. La, lay. Soua, sound. But, without. Gudeman the master of a family. Kale-yard, kitchen-garden. Bodie, person. Beuk, book here Bible. Carle, man, old man.

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Note 131, I* age 51S ana 513.

Karnes, combs. Lapt, folded. Keek, look. Loof, hand, palm of the hand. Blob, drop. Jimpy, slender. Ee bree, eyebrow. Fa, fall.

Note 133, I* age 514 and 515.

Ahin, behind. Tint, lost. Leal, honest, loyal.

Note 133, F age 540—551.

Beltane, See Note 36. E'en evening. Gin, against. Fa, to fall, abate, Thochts, thoughts. Een, eyes. Saut, salt. Sair, sore. Langsyne, long since. Ilk ither, each other. Bairn, child. Laigh bink, low bench. Lear, teach, learn. Loof, hand. Owre, over. Braid, plain. Buik, book. Brent, burnt. Weans, children. Cleeked, arm in arm. Skated, left. Speel, climb. Braes, hills. Mms, rans. Hinnied, honeyed. Beavin, deafening. Dinsome, noisy. Burn, rivulet. Croon, ripple. Qloamiti, twilight. Throssil, throstle. Knows, little hill. Aboon, above. Grat, ■wept. Gin, if. Sindered, separated. Ken, know.

Note 134, I*age 563.

Same, home. Ilk, each. lla\ hall. Gïe, give. Kenna, know not. Am, of all. Maun, must. Baith, both, IaioI, loyal, honest. Hand, hold, Mither, mother. Hie an' laigh, high and low. Simmer, summer. Syne, since, Yird, earth. Fa, fall.

Note 135, IPage 563—565.

Fj c eye, Saft, soft. Laverock, lark. Aboon, above. A\ all. Awn, own. Kens, knows. Ilk starn, each star. Lift, firmament. Grit, great (vol). The heart is saidtt be grit when one is ready to cry. Langsyne, long since. Brackan, fern. Bum, rivulet. Bield, shelter, hut. Sough, a rushing sound. Eerie, fear inspiring. Blatc, blow. Thraug, throng. Sic, such. Tauld, told. Tine, lose. Gowd, gold.

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