None save thou and thine, I've sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,

Where our hands shall be join'd and our sorrow forgot

There thou yet shalt be my bride,

When once again I've quell'd the pride

Of Venice; and her hated race

Have felt the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes."
Upon his hand she laid her own—

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was the grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold:
But never did clasp of one so dear

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white,

Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue

So deeply chang'd from what he knew:
Fair but faint-without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye
shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream :
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air,

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down From the shadowy wall where their images frown; Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

"If not, for love of me be given

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,
Again I say that turban tear

From off thy faithless brow, and swear
Thine injured country's sons to spare,
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see-
Not earth-that's past—but heaven or me.
If this thou dost accord, albeit

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet,
That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And mercy's gate may receive thee within :
But

pause one moment more, and take
The curse of Him thou didst forsake :
And look once more to heaven, and see
Its love for ever shut from thee:

There is a light cloud by the moon—
'Tis passing, and will pass full soon-
If, by the time its vapoury sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged;
Dark will thy doom be, darker still
Thine immortality of ill."

Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high
The sign she spake of in the sky;

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside,

By deep interminable pride:

This first false passion of his breast

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest.

He sue for mercy! He dismayed

By wild words of a timid maid!

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave!

No-though that cloud were thunder's worst,

And charged to crush him-let it burst.

He look'd upon it earnestly,

Without an accent of reply;

He watch'd it passing; it is flown—
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake : "Whate'er

my fate,
I am no changeling-'tis too late :
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.
What Venice made me, I must be-

Her foe in all, save love to thee;

But thou art safe; oh, fly with me!"
He turn'd, but she is gone!

Nothing is there but the column stone.

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?
He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there.

LORD BYRON.

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 are ye would

pass Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh! I'm the Chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men,
Three days we've fled together,

For if he find us in the glen,

My blood will stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride, Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,— "I'll go, my Chief,-I'm ready;

It is not for your silver pound,
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 angry winds were shrieking, And in the scowl of Heav'n, 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.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father!"