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A BALLAD.

Oh! should it please the world's supernal King, And pendent from its dismal top
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing; The deadly nightshade hung ;
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, The hemlock and the aconite
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simvom's blasting hand; Across the mouth were flung.
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,
My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom, And all within was dark and drear,
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,

And all without was calm;
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,

Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave,

By some deep-working charm. And mix its moanings with the desert wave.

And as she enter'd the cavern wide,

The moon beam gleamed pale,

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock GONDOLINE.

It clung by its slimy tail.

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, The night it was still, and the moon it shone

She trod on a bloated toad; Serenely on the sea,

Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock

She kept upon her road. They murmur'd pleasantly,

And now upon her frozen ear When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,

Mysterious sounds arose ; A maiden full fair to the sight;

So, on the mountain's piny top, Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, The blustering north wind blows.' And turn'd it to deadly white.

Then furious peals of laughter loud ller thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear Were heard with thundering sound, It fill'd her faint blue eye,

Till they died away in soft decay, As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear,

Low whispering o'er the ground. Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Yet still the maiden onward went, Her Bertrand was the bravest youth

The charm yet onward led, Of all our good King's men,

Though each big glaring ball of sight And he was gone to the Holy Land

Seem'd bursting from her head. To fight the Saracen.

But now a pale blue light she saw, And many a month had pass'd away,

It from a distance came, And many a rolling year,

She follow'd, till upon her sight, But nothing the maid from Palestine

Burst full a flood of flame. Could of her lover hear.

She stood appall'd; yet still the charm Full oft she vainly tried to pierce

Upheld her sinking soul ; The Ocean's misty face;

Yet each bent knoe the other smote, Fall oft she thought her lover's bark

And each wild eye did roll. She on the wave could trace.

And such a sight as she saw there, And every night she placed a light

No mortal saw before, In the high rock's lonely tower,

And such a sight as she saw there,
To guide her lover to the land,

No mortal shall see more.
Should the murky tempest lower.
But now despair had seized her breast,

A burning caldron stood in the midst,
And sunken in her eye:

The flame was fierce and high, “Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,

And all the cave so wide and long And I in peace will die."

Was plainly seen thereby. She wander'd o'er the lonely shore,

And round about the caldron stout The Curlew scream'd above,

Twelve wither'd witches stood : She beard the scream with a sickening heart

Their waists were bound with living snaken Much boding of her love.

And their hair was stiff with blood. Yet still she kept her lonely way,

Their hands were gory too; and red And this was all her cry,

And fiercely flamed their eyes : “Oh. tell me but if Bertrand live,

And they were muttering indistinct And I in peace shall die."

Their hellish mysteries. And now she came to a horrible rift,

And suddenly they join'd their hands, All in the rock's hard side,

And utter'd a joyous cry, A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread

And round about the caldron stout The cavern yawning wide.

They danced right merrily.

And now they stopt; and each prepared

To tell what she had done, Since last the Lady of the night

Her waning course had run. Behind a rock stood Gondoline,

Thick weeds her face did veil, And she leaned fearful forwarder,

To hear the dreadful tale.

The first arose : She said she'd seen

Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve,

And a jovial storm had brew'd. She callid around the winged winds,

And raised a devilish rout; And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard

Full fifteen leagues about.
She said there was a little bark

Upon the roaring wave,
And there was a woman there who'd been

To see her husband's grave.
And she had got a child in her arms,

It was her only child,
And oft its liule infant pranks

Her heavy heart beguiled.
And there was loo, in that same bark,

A father and his son ;
The lad was sickly, and the sire

Was old and woe-begone.
And when the tempest waxed strong,

And the bark could no more it 'bide,
She said it was jovial fun to hear

How the poor devils cried.

And then she told, how she bored a hole

In the bark, and it fill'd away:
And 't was rare to hear, how some did swear.

And some did vow and pray.
The man and woman they soon were dead,

The sailors their strength did urge ;
But the billows that beat were their winding-sheel

And the winds sung their funeral dirge. She threw the infant's hair in the fire,

The red Aame flamed high,
And round about the caldron stout

They danced right merrily.
The second begun : She said she had done

The task that Queen Hecate had set her.
And that the devil, the father of evil,

Had never accomplish'd a better. She said, there was an aged woman,

And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart

With misery and care. The daughter had a paramour,

A wicked man was he,
And oft the woman him against

Did murmur grievously.
And the hag had work’d the daughter up

To murder ber old mother,
That then she might seize on all her goods,

And wanton with her lover.

The mother clasp'd her orphan child

Unto her breast, and wept ; And, sweetly folded in her arms,

The careless baby slept.
And she told how, in the shape of the wind.

As manfully it roar'd,
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair

And threw it overboard.

And onc night as the old woman

Was sick and ill in bed, And pondering sorely on the life

Her wicked daughter led, She heard her footstep on the floor,

And she raised her pallid head, And she saw her daughter, with a knife,

Approaching to her bed.
And said, My child, I'm very ill,

I have not long to live,
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die

Thy sins I may forgive.

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek,

And she lifted the sharp bright knife. And the mother saw her full intent,

And hard she begg'd for life.

And to have seen the mother's pangs

"T was a glorious sight to see ; The crew could scarcely hold her down

From jumping in the sea.
The hag held a lock of the hair in ber hand,

And it was soft and fair :
It must have been a lovely child,

To have had such lovely hair.

But prayers would nothing her avail,

And she scream'd aloud with fear, But the house was lone, and the piercing screarns

Could reach no human ear.

And she said, the father in his arms

He held his sickly son, And his dying throes, they fast arose,

His pains were nearly done.

And though that she was sick and old,

She struggled hard and fought; The murderess cut three fingers through

Ere she could reach her throat.

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, And the hag she held the fingers up, And his face grew deadly blue :

The skin was mangled sore, And his father he tore his thin grey hair, And they all agreed, a nobler deed And kissed the livid hue.

Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire,

The red flame flamed high,
And round about the caldron stout

They danced right merrily.
The ihird arose : She said she'd been

To Holy Palestine;
And seen more blood in one short day,

Than they had all seen in nine.
Now Gundoline, with fearful steps,

Drew nearer to the flame.
For much she dreaded now to hear

Her hapless lover's name.

Insensible the maiden lay

Upon the hellish ground,
And still mysterious sounds were heard

At intervals around.
She woke-she half arose,--and wild,

She cast a horrid glare :
The sounds had ceased, the lights bad fed

And all was stillness there.

And through an awning in the rock,

The moon it sweetly shone,
And show'd a river in the cave

Which dismally did moan.
The stream was black, it sounded deep,

As it rush'd the rocks between,
It offer'd well, for madness fired

The breast of Gondoline

The hag related then the sports

Of that eventful day,
When on the well-contested field

Full fifteen thousand lay.

She said that she in human gore

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd Above the knees did wade,

With its accustom'd sound, And that no longue could truly tell

And hollow peals of laughter loud The tricks she there had play'd.

Again rebellow'd round. There was a gallant-featured youth,

The maid was seen no more..But oft Who like a bero fought;

Her ghost is known to glide, He kiss d a bracelet on his wrist,

At midnight's silent solemn hour,
And every danger sought.

Along the ocean's side.
And in a vassal's garb disguised,
Unto the knight she sues,

LINES
And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.

WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, IN THE

MORNING BEFORE DAY-BREAK.
That three days ere she had embark'd,
His love had given her hand

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Unto a wealthy Thane, and thought

Your brilliant places in the sable vault Him dead in holy land.

Of night's dominions - Planets, and central orhs And to have seen how he did writhe

of other systems ;-big as the burning sun When this her tale she told,

Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye

Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! To you I raise It would have made a wizard's blood Within his heart run cold.

My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,

My vision strays o'er your etherial hosts; Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,

Too vast, too boundless for our narrow minų, And sought the battle's bed:

Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, And soon, all mangled o'er with wounds, And sagely comprehend, thence higher soaring, He on the cold turf bled.

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,

The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, And from his smoking corse she tore

The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, His head, hall clove in two,

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude She ceased, and from beneath her garb

Of boundless space, above the rolling sphere
The bloody trophy drew.

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.
The eyes were starting from their socks, The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,
The mouth it ghastly grinn'd,

Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
And there was a gash across the brow,

Repeating loud, “ The Lord our God is great!' The scalp was nearly skinn'd.

In varied harmonies.—The glorious sounds

Roll o'er the air serene.—The Æolian spheres, "T was BERTRAND's Head!! With a terrible scrcam, Harping along their viewless boundaries, The maiden gave a spring,

Catch the full noto, and cry, “The Lord is great !". And from her fearful hiding-place

Responding to the Seraphim-O'er all, She fell into the ring.

From orb to orb, to the remotest verge The lights they fled—the caldron sunk,

Of the created world, the sound is borne, Deep thunders shook the dome,

Till the whole universe is full of HIM. And hollow peals of laughter came

Oh! 't is this heavenly harmony which now Resounding through the gloom.

In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,

And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, Lock'd in the arms of silence.
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale

Spirit of her!
of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! My only love !-0! now again arise,
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works! And let once more thine aëry accents fall
Say, canst Thou cast on me, poor passing worm, Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
One look of kind benevolence ?-Thou can'st; The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
For Thou art full of universal love,

With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart On the still air, the distant waterfall
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, Mingles its melody ;-and, high above,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

The pensive empress of the solemn night,

Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,

Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. How insignificant do all the joys,

No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
The gauds, and honors of the world appear!

Dure now assemble at their mystic revels;
How vain ambition Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?—Why on the page, The gentle ghosts of injured innocents

It is a night, when from their primrose beds,
The schoolman's labor'd pago, have I employ'd

Are known to rise and wander on the breeze, The hours devoted by the world to rest,

Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ?

And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay

The spirit of my love might now awake, The loss of health? or can the hope of glory

And hold its custom'd converse. Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,

Mary, lo! Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,

Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,

And calls upon thy name.-The breeze that blows
Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek?

On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him
Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame, In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
For which thou barterost health and happiness,

Wild and most sorrowful.—His cheek is pale:
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ?

The worm that play'd upon thy youthful bloom, Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs

It canker'd green on his.—Now lost he stands, Of everlasting punishment condign?

The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires !

Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God!

Of speedy dissolution -Mary, soon Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,

And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.–All but this is fully,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

MY STUDY

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE

GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

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Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.—Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam giiding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night-wind howld,
And the deep thunders shook the cbon throne
Of the startled night-Oh! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,
Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye ;-dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.—Thou didst sinile upon me,
And, oh! thy voice it rose so musical,
Botwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,

You bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the Muse in glory.
Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost heighi,
A closet, just six feet by four,
With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor,
So nobly large, 't is scarcely able
To admit a single chair and table;
And (lest the Muse should die with cold),
A smoky grate my fire to hold,
So wondrous small, 't would much it pose
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ;
And yet so big, it covers o'er
Full half the spacious room and more.
A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim
That soon they mean to leave the frame
My furniture I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;

1

A table wanting just lwo legs,

And should it e'er become so cold One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ;

That these it will no longer hold, A desk-of that I am not fervent,

No more may Heaven her blessings give,
The work of, Sir, your humble servant,

I shall not then be fit to live.
(Who, though I say'ı, am no such fumbler);
A glass decanter and a tumbler,
From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.
d chest of drawers, in antique sections,

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! And saw'd by me in all directions ;

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's Of oddities upon the floor,

sway, A pair of globes, electric balls,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobblers' awls,

Thee on this bank he threw
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,

To mark his victory.
Octavos, folios, quartos, lwelves;
I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,

In this low vale the promise of the year,
You 'll have my earthly catalogue.

Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, But stay,--I nearly had left out

Unnoticed and alone,
My bellows, destitute of snout;

Thy tender elegance.
And on the walls,-Good Heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,

So virtue blooms, bronght forth amid the storms Of heads, and coins, and silver medals

Of chill adversity: in some lone walk And organ works, and broken pedals,

or life she rears her head, (For I was once a-building music,

Obscure and unobserved ;
Though soon of that employ I grew sick);
And skeletons of laws which shoot

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows All out of one primordial root;

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
That you, with such a sight, would swear

Serene the ills of life.
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,

SONNET.
A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;

TO THE RIVER TRENT.WRITTEN ON RECOVERY
But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,

ONCE more, oh Trent! along thy pebbly marge Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Bum,

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, I never yet could justly learn :

From the close sick-room newly let at large, But knowing well, that any head

Wooes 10 his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. Is made to answer for the dead,

O! to his ear how musical the tale (And sculptors first their faces frame,

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat ; And after pitch upon a name,

And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail' Nor think it aught of a misnomer

How wildly novel on his senses float! To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,

It was on this that, many a sleepless night, Because they both have beards, which, you know,

As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, Will mark them well from Joan and Juno),

And at his casement heard, with wild affright, For some great man, I could not tell

The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, But Neck might answer just as well,

On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, So perch'd it up, all in a row

Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. With Chatham and with Cicero.

FROM SICKNESS.

Then all around, in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see
Of mighty men, and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground,
For though confined, 't will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small
I've friends, and 'ı will contain them all;

SONNET.
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys ;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire.
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,

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