Vividly, then,-as memory, true

To that fresh dream, retrac'd it all,— The brow, the figure, the garb he drew, But over those eyes a vail let fall.

Nor ever, from that recorded day,

Have the muse of Painting's warmest dyes, Or the muse of Poesy's boldest lay

Ventured to picture Ali's eyes.

THOMAS MOORE.

LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

THEY made her grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by the fire-fly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;

Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near;

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds

His path was rugged and sore;

Through tangled juniper beds of reeds,

Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man ne'er trod before!

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If sleep his eye-lids knew,

He lay where the deadly vines do weep
Their venomous tears-and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the sea-wolf stirred the brake,
And the rattlesnake breath'd in his ear,
Till he, starting, cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the lake, and the meteor bright
Quick o'er the surface play'd:-

"Welcome,” he said, “my dear one's light!" And the dim shore echoed for many a night The name of the death-cold maid!

Till he formed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;

Far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The winds were high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more!

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,

This lover and maid so true,

Are seen by the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by the fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

THOMAS MOORE.

ALP, THE RENEGADE.

He sate him down at a pillar's base,
And pass'd his hand athwart his face;
Like one in dreary musing mood,
Declining was his attitude;

His head was drooping on his breast,
Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd;
And o'er his brow so downward bent,
Oft his beating fingers went
Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run o'er the ivory key,
Ere the measured tone is taken
By the chords you would awaken.
There he sate all heavily,

As he heard the night-wind sigh.

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,

Sent that soft and tender moan?

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea,
But it was unrippled as glass may be;

He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade,
How was that gentle sound conveyed?

He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still, So did the leaves on Citharon's hill,

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;
What did that sudden sound bespeak?

He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight?
There sate a lady, youthful and bright.
He started up with more of fear
Than if an armed foe were near.
“God of my fathers! what is here?
Who art thou, and wherefore sent
So near a hostile armament?"
His trembling hands refused to sign
The cross he deem'd no more divine;
He had resumed it in that hour,
But conscience wrung away the power.
He gazed, he saw; he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,

The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek,

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining;

Through the parting of her hair,
Floating darkly downward there,

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare :
And ere yet she made reply,

Once she raised her hand on high;

It was so wan, and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through.
"I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy, and he may be blest.
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee

From a maid in the pride of her purity;

And the Power on high, that can shield the good Thus from the tyrant of the wood,

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well

From the hands of the leaguering infidel.
I come-and if I come in vain,

Never, oh never, we meet again!
Thou hast done a fearful deed

In falling away from thy father's creed:
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
And to-morrow unites us no more to part."

"And where should our bridal couch be spread? In the midst of the dying and the dead?

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.