THE SPECTRE BOAT.

A BALLAD.

LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted bower of love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal view,

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue.

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,

Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.

'Twas now the dead-watch of the night-the helm was lash'd a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea;

When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud :—

-Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with Heaven!"—

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,

For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Ir any white-wing'd Power above
My joys and griefs survey,

The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely bless'd that day.

I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty's magic powers,

That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.

My mind had lovely shapes portray'd;
But thought I earth had one

Could make ev'n Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed, and felt upon my lips

Th' unfinish'd accents hang: One moment's bliss, one burning kiss, To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning's flash Those tranced moments flew,

Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes,
Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

LINES

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST
FROM K. M, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.
THIS wax returns not back more fair

Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!—
We are not friends of yesterday;-
But poets' fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool (they say)
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,

And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock,What utt'rances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock! What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page

And feelings of futurity!—

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift
To date th' epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet:

Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reach'd its influence most benign→ When every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song-mark'd with the crest That erst th' advent'rous Norman' wore Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillain Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

1 A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung.

Yet little might I prize the stone,

If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.

No! but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art-
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!
Kath'rine! to many an hour of mine

Light wings and sunshine you have lent;

And so adieu, and still be thine

The all-in-all of life-Content!

GILDEROY.

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows' tree!

The bell has toll'd: it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart?

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the riband green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore

Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,

The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,

When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouidering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

ADELGITHA.

THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, deliver'd from her danger;

But when he knelt to claim her glove"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love.

"For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me."

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"-
He raised his vizor-At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!

ABSENCE.

"TIs not the loss of love's assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But 't is the too, too long endurance

Of absence, that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,

Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart that breaks with sadness
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? "Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,The pain without the peace of death!

THE RITTER BANN.
THE Ritter Bann from Hungary
Came back, renown'd in arms,
But scorning jousts of chivalry
And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom,
And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer.

"T was the Abbot of St. James's monks,
A fresh and fair old man:

His reverend air arrested even
The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame

Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter's color went and came,
And loud be spoke in ire.

"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Name not her name to me;

I wish it blotted from my brain:
Art poor?-take alms, and flee."

"Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,

"This case your ear demands;"

And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed
In both her trembling hands:

"Remember, each his sentence waits;
And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut.

"You wedded undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring;-
In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen's pardoning,

"Her house denounced your marriage-band,
Betrothed her to De Grey,
And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrench'd by force away.

"Then wept your Jane upon my neck,

Crying, 'Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'
But word arrived-ah me!-

"You were not there; and 't was their threat, By foul means or by fair, To-morrow morning was to set

The seal on her despair.

"I had a son, a sea-boy, in

A ship at Hartland bay;
By his aid, from her cruel kin
I bore my bird away.

"To Scotland from the Devon's

Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread.

"She wrote you by my son, but he
From England sent us word
You had gone into some far country,
In grief and gloom he heard.

"For they that wrong'd you, to elude
Your wrath, defamed my child;
And you-ay, blush, Sir, as you should→→→
Believed, and were beguiled.

"To die but at your feet, she vow'd To roam the world; and we

Would both have sped and begg'd our bread, But so it might not be.

"For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness proof
As child e'er grew like man.

"T was smiling on that babe one morn, While heath bloom'd on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door.

"She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother's pride; Who came to us in high disdain,

'And where's the face,' she cried,

"Has witch'd my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?-
Dost love thy husband? Know, my son
Has sworn to seek his life.'

"Her anger sore dismay'd us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. "So I told her, weeping bitterly,

What all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een.

"And she housed us both, when, cheerfully. My child to her had sworn, That even if made a widow, she

Would never wed Kinghorn."

Here paused the nurse, and then began The abbot, standing by:

"Three months ago, a wounded man

To our abbey came to die.

"He heard me long, with ghastly eyes And hand obdurate clench'd, Speak of the worm that never dies,

And the fire that is not quench'd..

"At last by what this scroll attests
He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts
His guilt had wrung with grief.

"There lived,' he said, 'a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof;

I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

"I feign'd repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature
Be copied from her neck.

"As means to search him, my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,
And Jane's reported scorn.

"The treachery took; she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wished; she clasp'd her child,
And swoon'd, and all but died.

"I felt her tears for years, and years Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate 1 bore her mate

Increased my love for her.

"Fame told us of his glory, while

Joy flush'd the face of Jane;
And while she bless'd his name, her smile
Struck fire unto my brain.

"No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp,
Sought out its champion;
And if my broad-sword fail'd at last,
"T was long and well laid on.

"This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

"He died not till you went to fight

The Turks at Warradein;

But I see my tale has changed you pale.”—
The abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page, who pour'd
It out, and knelt and smiled:-

The stunn'd knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,
Laugh'd loud and wept anon,

And with a snower of Kisses press'u
The darling little one.

"And where went Jane?'-"To a nunnery, SirLook not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.""And has she ta'en the veil ?"

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar

Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

"Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The abbot further said;

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face

More deep than cloister's shade.

"Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."
"Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn's adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumber'd hours of pain;
Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as 1;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ↑ Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away,

I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 't is thou,
That send'st it from above,

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odors rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
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.

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND."

MEN of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:--

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail, in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants! Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Azincours!

We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny:They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights-so will we!

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.
NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing,
Wed, cr cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,
Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear;

But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier, dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

"And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree'

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree

SONG.

EARL March look'd on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour,

His coming to discover;

And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.