The account of the consummation of this horrible ceremony, and the flight of the wanderer, is remarkably fine :

LXIX.

Away-away I rushed;-but swift and high
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew,
Till the transparent darkness of the sky
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in their hue;
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed

To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they streamed,
With their wild splendour chasing me!-I knew
The death-work was begun-I veiled mine eyes,
Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the victims cries.

LXX:

What heard I then ?-a ringing shriek of pain,
Such as for ever haunts the tortured ear?
-I heard a sweet and solemn breathing strain
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear!
-The rich, triumphal tones!-I knew them well,
As they came floating with a breezy swell!
Man's voice was there-a clarion voice to cheer
In the mid-battle-ay, to turn the flying-

Woman's-that might have sung of Heaven beside the dying!

LXXI.

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing,

To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know
That its glad stream of melody could spring
Up from the unsounded gulfs of human woe!
Alvar! Theresa !-what is deep? what strong?

-God's breath within the soul!-It filled that song

From your victorious voices!-but the glow

On the hot air and lurid skies increased

-Faint grew the sounds-more faint-I listened-they had ceased!

He then escapes with his wife and child on board a vessel, but before it has reached its place of destination, the former dies. The exile's keen reminiscences of this event, and the circumstances connected with it, are most pathetically narrated. He, however, gains the woods of North America at last, and there pours forth the strains of passionate regret, from which we have already borrowed so largely. The Literary Gazette, we perceive, accuses Mrs. Hemans of an anachronism, with which, if our worthy contemporary had read the poem attentively, he would have seen that she was not chargeable. The boy (says the Gazette,) is represented as being quite infantine at his mother's death, and yet the father had been long years in prison. This is a misapprehension, the father had not been long years in prison, and there is, consequently, no anachronism whatever. We regret that our space will not admit of our transferring to our pages a few more of the numerous tender and touching bursts of feeling with which this poem abounds; but if our readers cannot form some idea of its many and great beauties from the specimens we have quoted, we shall be sorry for them. Of the many minor poems attached to the Forest Sanctuary,' we can only give three, viz. Our Lady's Well,' which we do not remember to have seen in print before; He Never Smiled Again,' an affecting passage in history, most pathetically illustrated, and Richard Cœur de Lion at the Bier of his Father,' one of the noblest Ballads in the English language.

OUR LADY'S WELL'*

FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more.
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore!
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls,
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls;
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass,
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy silvery glass;
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown,
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone;
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain-
Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!

Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore,
When he came from afar, his beads to tell,
And to chaunt his hymn at Our Lady's Well.
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers!
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there may the reaper his forehead lave,
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain—
-Bright Fount! thou art nature's own again!

Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine!

A voice that speaks of the past is thine!
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh,

With the notes that ring through the laughing sky;
'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird,
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!
-Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee,
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free?

Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain-
He hath made thee nature's own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages grey!
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay!
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,

And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now!
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought

In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought?

If peace to the mourner hath here been given,

Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven,

Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature's own again!

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

THE bark that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain ;

Why comes not death to those who mourn ¿
-He never smiled again!

* A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave,

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave!

Before him passed the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train,

But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair-
-He never smiled again!

He sat were festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the Tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
-He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace

Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,

Were left to Heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years

-He never smiled again!

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey Church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.

TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow,

Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung, and warriors slept beneath,

And light, as noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death a strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, yet it fell still brightest there : As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show,

-Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul;
And solemn were the strains they poured through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, and the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang with a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chaunt was hushed awhile, as by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader came.

He came with a haughty look, an eagle-glance and clear,

But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised ;For his father lay before him low, it was Coeur-de-Lion gazed?

And silently he strove with the workings of his breast,

-But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain-men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train, and he reck'd not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead, and sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead, pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek, and the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words-yet all too weak-gave his soul's passion way

'Oh, father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again, I weep-behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire! were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire! to hear thee bless thy son.

'Speak to me! mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred!
Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief, my king! I must be heard!
-Hushed, hushed-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?-woe, woe for all the love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright!

And father, father! but for me, they had not been so white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last, no longer couldst thou strive ;—
Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel and say—' forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king, on royal throne e'er seen;

And thou didst wear, in knightly ring, of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved in war, the bravest heart-
-Oh! ever the renowned and loved thou wert-and there thou art!

"Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!-
The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine, my sire! I see thee lie,-
-How will that sad still face of thine look on me till I die!'

Tobias Merton tells us we must fill out this page, we have therefore selected the following pleasing little song:

BRANDENBURGH HARVEST SONG.*

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

THE corn, in golden light,
Waves o'er the plain;

The sickle's gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.

Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!
-Alas! a heavier sound

Comes o'er the day.

On every breeze a knell

The hamlet's pour.

-We know its cause too well,
She is no more!

Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eye's blue,-

-Now o'er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!

*For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF Von Loeben.

THERE where yon rocks are sleeping,

Beneath the bright moonshine,

A Nymph her watch is keeping,
And gazing on the Rhine.

She looks upon the river,

As the vessels glide along

She sings and gazes ever,

But, Youth! beware her song.

With eyes so softly beaming,

Thus doth she look on all,

Whilst like clustering sun-beam streaming,
Her golden ringlets fall.

But, like the inconstant water,

Those glances still have rolled-
Beware the Flood's fair daughter,

For the wave is false and eold!

Thus sang an old huntsman, who had seated himself on a rock which impended over the Rhine, not far from the cave where, in ancient times, the holy hermit, St. Goar, had taken up his abode, and effected the conversion of the neighbouring fishermen. The waves, as they rushed past, bore swiftly along with them a small slight bark, in which sat a youth clothed in costly apparel. The boat was just speeding to the dangerous whirlpool, called the Bank, where the steersman is driven to the exercise of his utmost skill, to retain any command over his vessel. Yet the youth heeded not the dangers of his situation, nor turned away his gaze from a dark frowning rock, from whence a fair but unearthly maiden looked down, and seemed to smile upon him. The old huntsman now sang louder and louder, for he could not help fancying that the poor youth had set out to visit his true-love, and had been bewitched by the sight of the water-fairy, Loreley. Lute, bow, and rudder had all escaped from his hold; his hat, with its white plume, hung only by a ribbon around his neck, and he seemed to abandon himself to the rushing and raging waters, as though he delighted in their fury, and waited till they should have risen sufficiently high to bear him up the rock. The huntsman might have sung yet louder, and the whirlpool might have risen to overpower him with their roar, yet still not one single word would have reached the object of his warning; for he heard and saw nothing but the beautiful nymph, who, seated on the rock above him, was engaged in picking up little pieces of glittering stone, as though she were gathering flowers, and, anon, gaily scattering them in the water, and leaning over its sides to watch them sink down, and disappear in sparkling foam-bells. It seemed to her victim that it was to him she was leaning and smiling, and he stretched out his arms with a longing look, and stood as if gazing on a far-off star; when all at once his little bark was dashed with a shattering stroke on the sharp stones, and the vortex dragged him to its raging gulf, and closed its gigantic arms above his struggling form. All was now over with the hapless youth. He never rose again. But Loreley looked down with a careless and even sportive glance, gathered fresh splinters from the rock, and smiled like a child through her long fair hair.