And one night as the old woman
Was sick and ill in bed,
And pondering solely 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 fell intent,
And hard she begg'd for life.

But prayers would nothing her avail,

And she scream'd aloud with fear,

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams Could reach no human ear.

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 the hag she held the fingers up,
The skin was mangled sore,
And they all agreed a nobler deed
Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,
And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The third 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 Gondoline, with fearful steps,
Drew nearer to the flame,
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.

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
Above the knees did wade,

And that no tongue could truly tell
The tricks she there had play'd.

There was a gallant featured youth,
Who like a hero fought;

He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.

And in a vassal's garb disguised,
Unto the knight she sues,
And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.

That three days ere she had embark'd His love had given her hand Unto a wealthy Thane :—and thought Him dead in Holy Land.

And to have seen how he did writhe
When this her tale she told,

It would have made a wizard's blood
Within his heart run cold.

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed;

And soon all mangled o'er with wounds He on the cold turf bled.

And from his smoking corse she tore
His head, half clove in two.

She ceased, and from beneath her garb
The bloody trophy drew.

The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinn'd,
And there was a gash across the brow,
The scalp was nearly skinn'd.

'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream The maiden gave a spring,

And from her fearful hiding place
She fell into the ring.

The lights they fled-the cauldron sunk,
Deep thunders shook the dome,
And hollow peals of laughter came
Resounding through the gloom.

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 had fled,
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.

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd
With its accustom'd sound,
And hollow peals of laughter loud
Again rebellow'd round.

The maid was seen no more. But oft
Her ghost is known to glide,

At midnight's silent, solemn hour,
Along the ocean's side.

A BALLAD.

BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains, a little rest;
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid;
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear;

Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

P