"Then paler than marble Romilda she grew,

While tears of regret blamed her folly and pride. 'Oh! tell me, Cloud-King, if the giant said true,

And wilt thou not save from his sabre thy bride?'

""Tis in vain, my fair lady, those hands that you wring, The bond is completed, the dye it is cast;

For she who at night weds an element-king,

Next morning must serve for his brother's repast.'

“'Yet save me, Cloud-King! by that love you profess'd Bear me back to the place whence you tore me away.' Fair lady! yon fiends, should I grant your request, Instead of to-morrow, would eat you to-day.'

"Yet mark me, Cloud-King! spread in vain is your snare,

For my bond must be void, and escap'd is your prey, The two first commands which I give you, howe'er The task should be wondrous, unless you obey.'—

"Well say'st thou, Romilda; thy will, then, impart, But hope not to vanquish the King of the Storm, Or baffle his skill by invention or art:

Thou canst not command what I cannot perform?'

"Then clasping her hands, to the Virgin she pray'd, While in curses the wicked ones vented their rage. 'Now show me the truest of lovers;'—she said,

And lo! by her side stood the lovely young Page.

"His mind was all wonder, her heart all alarms; She sank on his breast, as he sank at her knee. The truest of lovers I fold in my arms,

Than the truest, now show me a truer !'-said she.

"Then loud yell'd the dæmons! the cloud-fashion'd halls
Dissolved! thunder bellow'd and heavy rains beat;
Again stood the Fair 'midst her own castle walls,
And still knelt the lovely young page at her feet.

"And soon for her own, and for Rosenhall's lord,
Did Romilda the truest of lovers declare,
Nor e'er on his bosom one sigh could afford,

That for him she had quitted the Monarch of Air.

"Full long yonder chapel has sheltered their urns,
Long ceased has the tear on their ashes to fall;
Yet still when October the twentieth returns,

Roars the fiend round these turrets, and shakes
Rosenhall.

"Oh! Pilgrim, thy fears let these annals remove, For day to the skies will tranquillity bring; This storm but declares that resentment and love gnaw the proud heart of the cruel Cloud-King."

Still

M. G. LEWIS.

N

LUCY GRAY.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew,
She dwelt on a wild moor;
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door.

You yet may see the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night, You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, child, to light

Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do, "Tis scarcely afternoon,

The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot band,
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain-roe;
With many a playful stroke,
Her feet disperse the powdery snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,
She wandered up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide,
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor,

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turned, and cried "In heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall.

And then an open field they crossed,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, and never lost
Till to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
The foot-marks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank,

And further-there were none.

Yet some maintain, that to this day,
She is a living child,

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song,

That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH.