Halloo! halloo ! away they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.
How swift the hill, how swift the dale,

Aright, aleft, are gone !
By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,

They gallop, gallop on.
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede,

Splash, splash across the fee: “ Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ;

Doft fear to ride with mee? Look up, look up, any airy crewe

In roundel dances reele : The moon is bryghte, and blue the nyghte,

Mayst dimlie see them wheele.
Come to, come to, ye ghostlie crew,

Come to, and follow mee,
And daunce for us the wedding daunce,

When we in bed shall be."
And brush, brush, brush, the ghostlie crew

Come wheeling ore their heads, All rustling like the wither'd leaves

That wyde the wirlwind spreads.
Halloo! halloo! away they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye;
And horse and rider snort and blowe,

And sparkling pebbles flye.
And all, that in the moonshyne lay,

Behynde them fled afar;
And backwarde scudded, overhead,

The sky and every star.
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;

Splash, splash, acrosse the see:
“ Hurrah !'the dead can ride apace;

Doft feare to ride with mee?
I weene the cock prepares to crowe;

The sand will foone be runne:
I snuffe the earlye morning aire;

Downe, downe! oure work is done.

The dead, the dead can ryde apace ;

Oure wed-bed here is fit:
Oure race is ridde, oure journey ore,

Oure endlesse union knit."
And lo! an yren-grated gate

Soon biggens to their viewe: He crackte

his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doors asunder flewe. They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode ;

"''Tis hither we are bounde:" And many

a tombstone ghostlie white Lay in the moonshyne round. And when he from his steede alytte,

His armour, black as cinder, Did moulder, moulder all awaye,

As were it made of tinder. His head became a naked skull;

Nor haire nor eyne had hee; His body grew a skeleton,

Whilome so blythe of blee.
And at his dry and bony heele

No spur was left to be ;
And in his witherede hande you might

The sythe and houre-glasse see.
And lo! his feede did thin to smoke,

And charnel fires outbreathe ;
And pald, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite

The mayde from underneathe.
And hollow howlings hung in aire,

And shrieks from vaults arose :
Then knew the mayde she might no more

Her living eyes unclose.
But onwarde to the judgement-seat,

Through myste and moonlighte dreare,
The ghostlie crewe their flyghte persewe,

And hollowe in her eare : “ Be patient; though thyne herte shoulde breke,

Arrayne not Heaven's decree, Thou now art of thie body refte,

Thie soule forgiven bee !"

TRIBUTE

To the MEMORY of a DECEASED FRIEND.

BY MR. ROSCOE.

MORTAL, from yon lower sphere,

Are thy earthly duties done,
Husband, father, friend, and son ?
Haft thou, o'er a parent's head,
Drops of filial fondness fhed ?
What the pleasure-hast thou provid,
'Tis to love and to be lov'd ?

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE EXILE.

BY G. M. LEWIS, ESQ.

FAR
AREWELL, O native Spain! farewell for ever
These banish'd

eyes

shall view thy coasts no more: A mournful presage tells my heart, that never

Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hush'd are the winds ; while soft the vessel, failing

With gentle motion, ploughs th’unruffled main, I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing,

And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. I see it yet!

Beneath

yon

blue clear heaven, Still do the spires, so well-belov’d, appear. From yonder craggy point, the gale of even

Still wafts my native accents to mine ear. Propp'd on some moss-crown'd rock, and gayly singing,

There, in the sun, his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing

Scenes of past joy before my forr'wing eyes. Ah! happy swain! he waits th’accustom'd hour,

When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky: Then gladly seeks his lov'd paternal bow'i,

And shares the feast his native fields fupply. Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him

With honest welcome, and with smile sincere : No threat’ning woes of present joys bereave him;

No sigh his bofom owns, his cheek no tear. Ah! happy swain ! such bliss to me denying,

Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;

Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,

Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.
No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty,

Sung by fome mountain-girl, who tends her goats, Some village swain imploring am'rous pity,

Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes. No more my arms a parent's fond embraces,

No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far

from these joys, with fighs which mem'ry traces, To sultry skies and diftant climes I

go. Where Indian suns engender new diseases,

Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the fev'rish thirft no art appeases,

The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.
But not to feel slow

pangs
consume

my

liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,

And brain delirious with the day-star's rage, Can make me know such grief as thus to sever,

With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever,

And feel that all thy joys are torn from me! Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber, Recall

my native country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number

Each loft delight, and dear friend left behind! Wild Murcia’s vales, and lov'd romantic bowers,

The river on whose banks a child I play'd, My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,

Each much-regretted wood and well-known glade. Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,

Thy scenes, which I am doom'd no more to know, Full oft shall mem'ry trace, my soul's tormentor,

And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But, lo! the fun beneath the waves retires;

Night speeds apace her empire to restore ; Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,

Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.