The charm is wound: I see an aged form,
In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;
O'er the careering surge he waves his wand:
Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm.
Now from bright op'ning clouds I hear a lay,
Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,* come away.

Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale?§

Mark'd ye

the low'ring castle on the heath?

Hark! hark! is the deed done? the deed of death!

The deed is done:-hail, king of Scotland, hail! I see no more;-to many a fearful sound

The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.

Pity! touch the trembling strings,

A maid, a beauteous maniack, wildly sings: "They laid him in the ground so cold,†

66

66 Upon his breast the earth is thrown;

High is heap'd the grassy mould,

"Oh! he is dead and gone.

"The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast,

"But pleasant shall be his rest."

* Ferdinand: see The Tempest.

See Macbeth.

Ophelia: Hamlet.

O sovereign Master! at whose sole command
We start with terror, or with pity weep;
O! where is now thy all-creating wand?
Bury'd ten thousand fathoms in the deep.
The staff is broke, the powerful spell is filed,
And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.

ABBA THULE.

[See History of the Pelew Islands.]

I Climb the highest cliff: I hear the sound
Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around:
I mark the sun that orient lifts his head!
I mark the sea's lone rule beneath him spread:
But not a speck can my long-straining eye,
A shadow, o'er the tossing waste descry,
That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
"It is the bark that bore my child away!"

Thou sun, that beamest bright, beneath whose eye The worlds unknown, and out-stretch'd waters, lie, Dost thou behold him now? On some rude shore, Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar, Watching th' unweary'd surges doth he stand, And think upon his father's distant land?

Or has his heart forgot, so far away,

These native scenes, these rocks and torrents grey,
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,

The shores, the sound of these encircling seas,
Heard from his infant days, and the pil'd heap
Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep?

Ah, me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell
With them forgetful in the narrow cell,
Never shall time from my fond heart efface
His image; oft his shadow I shall trace
Upon the glimmering waters, when on high
The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky.
Oft in my silent cave (when to its fire

From the night's rushing tempest we retire)
I shall behold his form, his aspect bland;

I shall retrace his footsteps in the sand;
And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell,
Still think I listen to his echoing shell.

Would I had perish'd ere that hapless day,
When the tall vessel, in its trim array,
First rush'd upon the sounding surge, and bore
My age's comfort from the sheltering shore!

I saw it spread its white wings to the wind-
Too soon it left these hills and woods behind-
Gazing, its course I follow'd till mine eye
No longer could its distant track descry;
Till on the confines of the billows hoar
Awhile it hung, and then was seen no more;
And only the blue hollow heav'n I spy'd,
And the long waste of waters tossing wide.

More mournful then each falling surge I heard, Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard. Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar At midnight, "Thou shalt see thy son no more!"

Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heav'ns have roll'd,

And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told;
And still, as every weary day goes by,

A knot recording on my line I tie;
But never more, emerging from the main,

I see the stranger's bark approach again.

Has the fell storm o'erwhelm'd him? Has its sweep Bury'd the bounding vessel in the deep?