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 shew'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.

LINES

ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAY-BREAK.

YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold

Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs

Of other systems :-big as the burning sun

Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him, who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.

Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, The Lord our God is great,' In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene-The Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note, and cry, 'The Lord is great,' Responding to the Seraphim.-O'er all, From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.. Oh! what is man, when at ambition's heightWhat even are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,

One look of kind benevolence? Thou canst;
For thou art full of universal love,

And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,

The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!
How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?-Why on the page,
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the
grave,
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits!. Eternal God!
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS

MISTRESS. OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.-Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft and low
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night.-O! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,

Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye;-dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.-Thou didst smile upon me,
And oh! thy voice it rose so musical
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her!

My only love!-O! now again arise,

And let once more thine aëry accents fall

Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling
On the still air, the distant waterfall