Ah! me, what mournful train is yon,

That sadly winds along the vale?

How sadly sounds the fun’ral dirge,

Dull floating on the ev’ning gale!

Why do the lovely maidens weep,

Distracted o’er yon sable bier?

Why do the gentle shepherds sigh?

And why the aged drop the tear?

And why, as on the coffin’s lid

The new-rais’d earth again doth fall,

Thus breaks such lamentation loud

Responsive from the lips of all?

But now a cold and breathless corse

In yonder grave Elfrida lies.”

“Good Heav’n!” the starting stranger cried,

With madness flashing from his eyes.

In vain the stranger strove to hide

The pangs that in his bosom bleed;

But soon he check’d the rising groan,

And bade the wond’ring swain proceed.

And didst thou know the hapless fair

That sleeps in yonder lowly bed?

Oh! then for her, the child of grief!

Do thou the tear of pity shed.

Five years their annual course have run,

Since first Rinaldo, noble youth,

(Sir Edgar’s brother), woo’d the maid,

And vow’d eternal love and truth.

But, ah! Elfrida’s matchless charms

Had won the guilty Edgar’s heart;

Rous’d the wild passions of his breast,

And bade him act the villain’s part.

For while to all he seem’d to bow

At purest friendship’s hallow’d fane,

He did but plot the coward scheme

Her plighted hand to falsely gain.

But now the direful trump of war

Invok’d each brother to the field;

Rinaldo left the maid he lov’d,

For glitt’ring helmet, spear, and shield.

They parted, and Elfrida mourn’d

Her absent love with streaming eyes;

But, ah! that lover ne’er return’d

To hush the maiden’s ceaseless sighs.

For, oh! that chief in battle fell;

But when the proud Sir Edgar came,

With joy and triumph, base and bold,

He soon confess’d th’ unhallow’d flame.

“And did the perjur’d false one yield!”

With wilder looks the stranger cried;—

“Ah! no, but faithful still and true,

She scorn’d his love, the swain replied.

Oh! where has Heav’n his lightning stay’d,—

That doth not flash the tyrant’s doom!”—

“It lingers not” (the stranger cried),

“The hour of retribution’s come.

With wild amaze, and deep surprise,

Aghast the wond’ring peasant stands;

Then sobbing sunk upon his knees,

And bath’d with tears Rinaldo’s hand.

“But, come, the warrior fiercely cried;

I follow vengeance’ bloody call!”—

Then with quick step, and frantic mien,

He sought St. Garvin’s ancient hall.

There ’mid his guests, Sir Edgar sat,

With splendid dress and haughty air;

But anguish gnawing at his heart,

Black seat of horror and despair!

He started up with wild affright,

His brother’s faded form he view’d;

Down dropp’d the goblet from his hand,

And cold damp drops his forehead dew’d!

“Just Heav’n! what ghastly spectre yon!

Why hast thou left thy bloody tomb?

Or dost thou, dreadful vision! come

To warn me of approaching doom?”

“If I’m a spectre of the tomb,

What hand prepar’d that tomb for me?

What ruffian broke Elfrida’s heart?

Say, do I now that ruffian see?”

“Forgive! forgive! Sir Edgar cried,

While terror fix’d his stony eye!

Thy brother’s crime, oh! yet forgive;

Forgive, Rinaldo—for I die!”

Rinaldo check’d his lifted arm,

He sheath’d the glitt’ring sword again;

For tender mercy touch’d his soul,

But touch’d too late, and pleads in vain.

For cold and chill was Edgar’s heart,

A freezing pang congeal’d his breath;

And down, with many a horrid groan,

The guilty traitor sunk in death.

Rinaldo sought the cloister’s gloom,

Far from the busy haunts of men;

Where meek religion, calm repose,

And holy quiet sooth’d his pain.

Far on the ocean’s lonely bed

Where rude Orcadean Islands lie,

In nature’s wildest robe array’d

Beneath an ever clouded sky;

Where round each coast, with hollow roar,

The rude winds keep their viewless court;

Where ceaseless billows dash the shore,

And spirits of the storm resort;

On wild North-Mavin’s rocky beach,

Poor Eric’s lowly cottage stood,

And brav’d alike the fearful reach

Of howling winds and foaming flood.

His Tamir, partner of his joys,

Of all his grief, and all his care—

His elder hopes, two hardy boys—

The infants prattling round his chair—

These sooth’d his labours, cheer’d his heart;

These bound him to his humble cot;

The noblest feelings, void of art,

Endear’d to him the lonely spot.

Long with misfortune’s gloomy train,

And want and poverty he strove;

Yet shrunk not back from toil nor pain,

Bless’d with these objects of his love.

Oft in his little fragile bark

For them he roam’d the billowy tide,

And many a night, forlorn and dark,

Upon the stormy wave would ride.

And soon his boys increas’d his store,

For all his dangers now they shar’d;

And often to the wand’ring poor

Their scanty pittance have they spa’d.rr’d.

Content and health his cottage bless’d,

And plenty still labour crown’d;

Calm pleasure fill’d his pious breast,

And peace and comfort smil’d around.

But short is pleasure’s fleeting day,

And like the sun-beam on the deep

That glitters bright, then fades away,

And leaves the trembling wretch to weep.

The weary cares of day were o’er,

And tranquil slept the busy world;

The billows slumber’d on the shore,

And scarce a breeze the waters curl’d.

When Eric, rous’d from happy dreams,

Light started from the arms of rest,

And by the pale moon’s glimm’ring beams

Embark’d upon the ocean’s breast.

The merry lads were at his side;

And told him many a cheerful tale,

As swiftly o’er th’ unruffled tide

Soft zephyrs waft their swelling sail.

The morning rose with smiles serene;

They set their lines with anxious care,

And joyful hail’d the prosp’rous scene;

The deep so still, the heav’ns so fair.

And fair the distant landscape seem’d,

While yet the radiant sun on high

Far o’er the glassy ocean stream’d,

And blaz’d amid the azure sky.

The awful calm that breath’d around,

As if all nature’s pulse were still,—

The silence broke not by a sound,—

With pious awe their bosoms fill.

But soon that awe was chang’d to dread,

When rush’d the tempest wild and loud,

For sudden storm began to spread,

And lightnings darted from the cloud.

The rolling thunder peal’d afar;

In rushing torrents fell the rain;

The jarring elements at war,

With horrid tumult shook the main.

All-gracious Heav’n! avert their doom;—

They drive before th’ unsparing gale;

Still darker frowns the gath’ring gloom,

And ev’ry cheek is deadly pale.

Close to his panting heart, the sire

With anguish press’d his hopes, his pride—

Quick flash’d across the blue-wing’d fire,

And laid them breathless at his side!

“My boys! my boys!” he madly cries,

While louder still the tempest blows:

On the wild winds his voice but dies;

They only mock the father’s woes.

The boat is whelm’d amid the wave;

Dark horror sits on Eric’s soul—

“My wife, my babes! Almighty! save”――

He sinks,—the surges round him roll.

Oh! soft may hapless Eric rest

Upon his coral grave reclin’d;

And mingling with the sainted blest

His spirit mount upon the wind!

But who shall hush his Tamir’s sighs,

And rear his little helpless train?

Oh! who shall stay their orphan-cries?

Or who relieve their wants and pain?

No more the heart-broke Tamir joys

To see them happy, blythe, and gay;

No household care her hand employs—

But all is ruin and dismay!

Oft on the shore with aching brow

She marks the angry billows’ rave;

And weeps for him who silent now

Lies cold beneath the distant wave.

May Charity, with aspect bland,

Some mild angelic form assume,

And shed sweet blessings from her hand,

To mitigate the mourner’s doom.

Oh! fair arose the summer dawn,

No sullen mist was seen to lour;

Night’s dreary shadows were withdrawn,

And morning brought her golden hour.

Soft was the air, and breathing balm;

The sea-fowl clamour’d on the shore;

The sky serene, the ocean calm,

And hush’d the breakers’ deaf’ning roar.

And slowly in the glitt’ring east,

His orient head the Sun uprais’d;

His beamy splendours round him cast,

On rock and steep refulgent blaz’d.

A trembling stream of glory lay

Across the ocean’s rippling bed,

And quick his bright beams sipp’d away

The dew-drop from each grassy blade.

The soaring lark had mock’d the eye,

But still was heard his matin song;

The sea-gull floats with restless cry;

The hungry raven flits along;

And heard was many a female voice,

That echo’d o’er the rocky shore,

And lisping children gay rejoice,

And listen for the distant oar.

At length the six-oar’d boat appears,

Slow moving o’er th’ unruffled tide;

Their long, long stay with artless tears,

The little prattlers fondly chide—

“How couldst thou stay so long at sea?

High blew the wind, and mammy wept;

We could not sleep, but thought on thee,

Though sweetly little Mary slept.”

Anxious the wife her husband views,

Who weary drags his limbs along;

“Hey, bonnie Kate!” he cries, “what news!”

Then carols blythe his morning song.

Oh! wherefore, William, stay so long

Upon the dark and stormy sea,

Where tempests howl, and dangers throng,

So far from thy dear babes and me?

For dark and dismal was the night,

And fearful was the billows’ roar;

And many a sheeted ghost, and sprite,

Shriek’d wildly on the sea-beat shore.

I listen’d fearful to the wind,

And heard a groan in ev’ry blast;

Ten thousand fears disturb’d my mind,

E’en when the raging storm was past.

“But we’ve successful been, dear Kate;

Behold, my lass, that plenteous load!—

To day I mean to dine in state—

On haddock, turbot, ling and cod.”

The hardy swain, with raptur’d eyes,

Kisses in turn his babes, and Kate,

Then to his humble cottage hies,

And blesses Heav’n with heart elate.

The scanty produce of the soil

Smokes on his platter clean and neat;

And though his fare be coarse, yet toil

Hath made the well-earn’d morsel sweet.

Then on his straw bed careless thrown,

He sinks into the arms of sleep;

Leaves it to paltry wealth to groan,

And pamper’d luxury to weep.

How happy are the charming pair

That live in yon romantic glen!

For Susan is the loveliest fair,

And William is the best of men.

When spring or summer decks the year,

When lambkins urge their joyful pranks,

And flow’rs their budding beauties rear,

On the smooth streamlet’s grassy banks;

From ev’ry shrub that scents the air,

He plucks a blossom wet with dew,

And with it forms a garland fair,

To grace the chesnut locks of Sue.

Then on the turf supinely laid,

No ruffling care to vex his mind,

He sings his lovely cottage-maid,

For ever fair, for ever kind.

The song is simple as the swain;

He chaunts in wild untutor’d lays,

The pleasures of the rural plain,

And chaunts them all to Susan’s praise.

Oh! come, my love! the spring returns;

I hear her herald in the grove,

The shepherd’s breast with rapture burns,

And all is harmony and love.

What countless beauties paint the scene,

The rural scene still form’d to please;

Where virtue, love, and friendship reign,

Where dwell contentment, health, and ease!

We’ll wander up yon woodland hill,

Where spring’s sweet infant breezes blow;

And seated by some murm’ring rill,

Muse on the varied charms below.

The stream that smoothly winds along,

On whose blue breast the zephyrs sleep;

The shepherd’s pipe, the milk-maid’s song,

The distant valley white with sheep!

The fairest flow’rs that Flora yields,

To deck thy wavy locks I’ll bring;

For thee I’ll rove the dewy fields,

And gather all the sweets of spring.

And there the violet shall try

To match thine eyes’ celestial blue;

The rose-bud’s op’ning blush shall vie

With thy fair cheek’s soft vermeil-hue.

The mountain-daisy there shall spread

Its bosom white as Alpine snow,

To match thy neck, my lovely maid,

But, ah! ’twill want that breathing glow.

And all their rival charms combin’d

Their varied sweets and mingled grace,

Alike shall emulate thy mind,

E’en as they emulate thy face!

Thus William sang—the echoing hills

Reply the raptures of the swain,

And smoother flow the murm’ring rills,

While smiling Sue approves the strain.

No jealous doubts disturb his heart,

Where easy truth delights to dwell;

For simple she, and void of art,

The modest maid he loves so well.

Nor let the pride of pow’r and wealth

Despise their humble birth and fame,

For their’s are competence and health;

And what are titles but a name?

An empty name, as light as air,

Unless with worth and virtue join’d;—

Can titles break the bonds of care?

Can these enlarge the narrow mind?

But virtue, like the tow’ring oak,

Lifts her tall head, the forest’s pride;

The raging storm, the whirlwind’s shock,

Fall weak and harmless at her side.

Vice, like some frail and gaudy flow’r,

Spreads her broad bosom to the sun,

but ere the ev’ning’s silent hour,

Is wither’d, perish’d, and undone.

Peace forsakes my throbbing bosom—

Reason flies my bursting brain—

Mercy, Heav’n! and must I lose him;

Never see my child again!

Hark! yon shriek that loudly floated

On the gale, so piercing wild—

’Tis the voice on which I doated—

’Tis my darling, only child!

Still I see his bosom bleeding—

Stretch’d upon his early bier:—

Mothers! when my tale is reading,

Drop the sympathetic tear.

Edward was my pride and pleasure;

Graceful grew my manly boy;

All his mind a fund of treasure—

Seat of innocence and joy.

But my Edward, fir’d by glory,

Fled my fond protecting arms;

Sigh’d for fame in honour’s story,

Sigh’d for battle’s wild alarms.

Hark! I hear the battle raging;

Groans of anguish rend the air;—

Now my boy the war is waging,

Deaf to all my wild despair.

On Corunna’s plain surrounded

By the fierce relentless foe,

There I saw him, pale and wounded,

Sink beneath the fatal blow.

See Death’s tyrant hand is shading

Darkly now each matchless grace;

See the roses, quickly fading,

Vanish from my Edward’s face!

Oh! my heart will burst with sighing;

Bleeds my bosom’s inmost core—

There I saw him pale and dying,

Stiff’ning, welt’ring in his gore.

All my steps are mark’d with slaughter,

Blood of him I call’d my Son:

See, his pale form follows after;—

Edward, Edward, art thou gone!

Come, my child—but ah! what sadness

Sits upon thy youthful front?

Hide those bloody wounds!—Oh, madness!

Hide that rapier’s streaming point!

Shall I never more behold thee,

Dearest treasure of my breast,

Never in my arms enfold thee,

Never to thy lips be prest?

Yet my starting eyes are tearless,

And my burning cheeks are dry;

Raging frenzy makes me fearless—

Whither, whither, shall I fly?

Mark! a radiant train attending,

Edward mounts the vaulted sky;—

See the blazing pomp ascending,

Far above the stars they fly.

Stop, my child, I come to meet thee—

Stop, my love, my darling boy!

Keep thy sweetest smile to greet me

In those realms of endless joy.

There no bloody hand shall part us,

There no ruffian force I’ll fear,—

Angels there shall safely guard us,

Hush each sigh, and dry each tear.

“Say, pensive fair one, whither bound?

Whose jetty locks, with cypress crown’d,

Throw round they face a mournful gloom,

That ill-befits thy rosy bloom.”

“Dost thou not know, the maid reply’d,

How Lewis bled—how Lewis died—

And in the silent grave was laid,

And sleeps beneath the cypress shade?

She said; and where yon grey oaks spread

Their leafy shade she bow’d her head,

And, sinking on the green earth, sigh’d

Her murder’d lover’s name, and died!

Calm as yon stream’s pellucid breast,

That down the winding valley flows,

By health and innocence caress’d,

The dayspring of my life arose.

My looks were fresh as yonder flow’r

That blushes on its parent thorn,

Peace smil’d upon my midnight hour,

And waken’d with the purple morn.

But, ah! disguis’d in friendship’s mien,

Insidious love assail’d my breast;

Destroy’d each brighter, fairer scene,

And robb’d my soul of peace and rest.

I found him full of anxious fears,

Of cares and doubts an endless train;

The herald of my future tears,

The harbinger of future pain.

The verdant fields, the azure skies,

The dimpled brook, and leafy grove,

Have been the witness of his sighs,

The list’ners of his plighted love.

But since he falsely can forsake

The heart ’twas once his pride to gain,

That heart shall now in silence break,

Nor let him triumph in its pain.

Perhaps, when death these eyes shall close,

My faithless Edward yet may mourn,

May think him then of all my woes,

And weep, too late, on Harriet’s urn.

In vain, bright Sun! thou shinest here,

For him thou canst not shine upon,

That to this aching breast was dear,

And, ah! for ever, ever gone!

The long, dull ev’ning pleases more,

When in some dark sequester’d room

I sit, and hear the tempest roar,

And mourn amid th’ unsocial gloom.

He was the dearest, tend’rest friend!

With him each joy, each pleasure dies;

Ah me! what pangs my bosom rend—

Cold in his bloody grave he lies.

Oh! fate too early and severe!

Detested war! the work was thine;

And never maiden’s gushing tear

Bewail’d a loss so deep as mine.

Oh! do not mock my downcast eye,

Nor rudely scoff with bitter scorn,

To hear th’ involuntary sigh

Burst from a heart with anguish torn.

Oh! Slander, let thy tongue be still,—

Yet speak—thy tort’ring pow’r is o’er;

Revile, and load with ev’ry ill

The heart which thou canst pain no more.

’Tis past—but can it be a crime

To weep a lover’s timeless end,

And dedicate life’s early prime

To mourn so true, so dear a friend?

Why o’er a friend’s cold ashes mourn?

Why weep a parent’s death to see?

Why languish at a husband’s urn?—

Oh! he was all and all to me.

Then wound not more my broken peace,

Nor trample thus on bruised reed;

For, ah! till life, till mem’ry cease,

This widow’d heart must ever bleed.

And thou, bright Sun, withdraw thy rays;

Nor hope, nor solace, they impart;—

Unjoyous scenes, and cheerless days,

Are fitter for an aching heart.

Thus, all dejected, weak, and pale,

The mourning Ethelinda lay;

And sigh’d her moanings to the gale

That temper’d now the sultry day.

Her once so fair and polish’d form,

On the green turf was careless laid;

And on her cheek, grief’s canker-worm

Had beauty’s half-blown rose decay’d.

In vain for her the summer sun

With more than wonted splendour shone;

To her his beams were dark and dun—

With Arthur all her hopes had gone!

She rose to quit the smiling scene,—

For her, alas! no charms it wore;

And slowly pac’d the flow’ry green

So oft had Arthur trod before.

When, lo! before the mournful maid

Bent a poor aged son of war,

Wrapp’d in his tatter’d Highland plaid,

And seam’d with many a ghastly scar.

Oh, lady! gentle lady! stay,

A poor old soldier bends the knee;

Weary and long has been the way,

And youth and strength have gone from me.

From Spain’s ensanguin’d fields I roam,

Where valour’s desp’rate deeds are done;

Where glory’s greenest laurels bloom

Around the brows of Wellington

Wounded and weak, I wend my way

To my dear native Highland land;—

Yet, ere I go, this charge convey

In safety, lady, to your hand.

Heav’ns! what emotions shook her frame,

When her own picture met her view;

The same—oh, yes!—the very same

She gave him with her last adieu!

She wept; her snowy hands she rung,

And call’d in anguish on his name,—

Till round the woodland echoes rung,

And sadly sigh’d—“Oh! Arthur Graham!”

She gaz’d upon the soldier’s face—

His trembling hand the mask withdrew—

And blooming bright in youthful grace,

Her Arthur’s form again she knew.

He threw the Highland plaid aside,

And clasp’d her to his gallant breast:—

“Oh! my best love, my promis’d bride!—

And am I then so sweetly blest!

Now roseate blushes once again

Mantle on Ethelinda’s face,

Joy sparkled in her alter’d mien,

And wak’d once more each vanish’d grace.

Soon to his native Highland land,

Young Arthur led his beauteous bride;

And love and glory, hand in hand,

Walk’d by the youthful chieftain’s side.

And loud the Highland echoes rung

From hill to hill, with mirth and joy;

The old bard woke his harp, and sung

The mountain tale “of days gone by.”

And praise and blessings flow’d around

From humble love, and high-born pride;

Nor could a happier pair be found

Than Arthur and his lovely bride.

Ah! wherefore droops yon lovely flow’r,

The pride of Highland hill and glade,

That blush’d erewhile in Ronald’s bow’r,

And smil’d amid the green-wood shade?

And why those blue eyes sunk, and sad,

And fled those blushes like the morn,

With which her lily cheek was clad,

Bright as the red-rose on its thorn?

And why, with pensive steps and slow,

Loves she to wander all alone,

Where loud the mountain torrents flow,

And deep winds through the forest groan?

Ah! why, but that these woods among,

As deep entranc’d in thought she stood,

Unearthly music round her rung,

Wak’d by the Fairy of the Wood?

“All ear” she stood, to list the strain,

That softly floated on the breeze;—

Sweeter than aught that poets feign

Of mermaid’s song o’er moonlight seas.

Where’er she turn’d, where’er she mov’d,

Still on her ear the witch-notes rung;

And hapless Mary sigh’d and lov’d,

While thus the unseen spirit sung:—

Oh! come, thou loveliest, sweetest flow’r,

That ever met the sunny beam;

The fairest thing in mortal bow’r,

And purer than the mountain stream!

Oh! I have watch’d thy rising morn,

With anxious love and tender care;

Have shown the rose—but hid the thorn,

And led thy steps from ev’ry snare.

Oh! wilt thou come, and share the bow’r,

Prepar’d for thee by viewless hand,

And thou shall bloom the sweetest flow’r,

That ever smil’d in Fairy land.

I’ll bear thee on the zephyr’s wing,

While yet the moon is glimm’ring pale,

To regions of eternal spring,

Where music breathes in ev’ry gale.

I’ll waft thee o’er the murm’ring sea,

Soft on some fleecy cloud reclin’d,

To dwell in Fairy vales with me,

And leave the haunts of humankind.

No jarring strife shall there molest,

But Spirits gentle as thy own

Shall greet thee to their bow’rs of rest,

With golden harps of heav’nly tone.

There streams of living waters flow,

And gales of incense breathe around;

There genial suns for ever glow,

And flow’rs that fade not strew the ground;

There beauty blooms with angel mien,

And virtue smiles immortal there;

No sighs are heard, no tears are seen,

Nor want, nor pain, nor toilsome care.

Then haste, and share the fragrant bow’r,

Prepar’d for thee by viewless hand,

And thou shalt live the sweetest flow’r

That ever bloom’d in Fairy land.

Here ceas’d the harp’s wild notes to sing,

Yet still on Mary’s heart they stray’d;

And much she wish’d to see the string,

And see the magic hand that play’d.

Soft, soft it fell, as summer show’rs,

When languid nature drooping lies;

Sweet as the breath of balmy flow’rs,

When o’er their breast the zephyr sighs.

But—shall she from her home depart,

To range in quest of worlds unknown?

Say, shall she pierce her mother’s heart,

And leave her aged sire to groan?

“Ah! no, it cannot, must not be;—

Cease, cease thou tempter! cease to play!”

“Mary—farewell—remember me!”—

The Spirit sigh’d, and fled away.

She heard the softly-rustling wing

Light winnowing the ambient air;

She touch’d the passing wild-harp’s string—

And pale she turn’d as lily fair.

From that sad hour she wanders still

Where torrents roll, and deep winds groan,

And seems to hear from distant hill

Her fairy-lover’s wild-harp’s tone.

Oh! was it but some airy dream,

A vision of the fever’d mind,

The murmur of the distant stream,

Or moaning of the passing wind?

Ah! no,— it was no airy dream,

No vision of the fever’d mind,

No murmur of the distant stream,

Nor moaning of the passing wind.

It was a voice, a voice of love!

It was a harp of heav’nly tone,

It was a sound the soul to move,

A spirit, Mary! like thine own.

But never more did Mary hear

The wild-harp echoing through the wood;

Though still she weeps and wanders there,

And pines in melancholy mood.

Thus droops and fades the lovely flow’r,

The pride erewhile of hill and glade,

That blush’d so sweet in Ronald’s bow’r,

And smil’d amid the green-wood shade.

Farewell for ever, best belov’d!—

His voice shall meet mine ear no more,—

Too long believ’d, too faithless prov’d,

He hastens from this friendly shore.

And soon, in England’s happy land,

A richer, fairer nymph shall find;

But, ah! not one to yield her hand,

With warmer heart, or purer mind.

Be still, thou deep;—ye fav’ring gales

Breathe lightly o’er the murm’ring wave;

Fill with soft breath my lover’s sails,

And waft him far from Ellen’s grave.

Ah! wherefore did ye waft him here,

To rend a luckless maiden’s heart?

But I will wipe the gushing tear:—

He cannot act so base a part!

Not many moons have lit the sky,

Nor silver’d yonder peaceful sea,

Since first I saw the vessel nigh,

That bore such joy, such grief to me.

Long had th’ Atlantic billows beat

Their gallant bark on wintry seas;

And long had been their cruise, and bleak,

Till spring awoke the western breeze.

Then safely anchor’d in this bay,

Too well their young commander strove

To steal my simple heart away,

And cloud my future days with love.

And will he spurn each plighted vow,

And leave me broken-hearted here?

But, hush, my doubts and terrors now—

He comes my drooping soul to cheer!

Thus Ellen, on the beach reclin’d,

View’d the tall bark, with dewy eye,

Her sails unfurling to the wind

That from the north came whistling by.

And as she gaz’d in wild despair,

The boat advances to the land;

She sees the gallant hero there,

And soon he springs upon the strand.

His was each youthful, manly grace,

But his the giddy wand’ring mind,

That found a love in ev’ry place,

And shifted with the shifting wind.

Poor Ellen’s was the fondest heart,

Form’d all to tenderness and love,

And free from ev’ry little art,

And mild and gentle as the dove.

“Farewell, sweet maid! farewell! he cried,

On you may love and rapture smile,

While I the boist’rous billows ride,

Far, far from you, and Thule’s isle.

Old Ocean’s bosom is my home,

And war the mistress I must woo;

For you may thornless roses bloom—

Sweet Thulean maid! adieu, adieu!”

No weak complaint escap’d her lip,

For burning pride suppress’d the sigh;

Till far, far off the gallant ship

Seem’d fading in the distant sky.

But stretch’d on the lone beach she lay,

Watching the slowly fading sail,

Till ev’ning wrapp’d in shadows grey

The mossy hill, and misty vale.

Pale grew her cheek, more deadly pale!

And lustreless her closing eye;

And there the moaning midnight gale

Receiv’d the Thulean maid’s last sigh.

Ah! vain essay, to cheat the heavy hour

With music’s charms— it cannot, will not be!

Too well, alas! this bosom feels thy pow’r,

And ev’ry thought concentrates still in thee.

Oh, Henry! shall I never tear thy form

From this believing and deluded heart—

Still must my soul endure the mental storm,

And weep for thee till life itself depart!

When on this faded cheek, this heaving breast,

Death’s icy hand with fatal touch is laid;

Say wilt thou wander by my bed of rest,

And drop one tear o’er thy forsaken maid?

Say, when eternal slumber seals those eyes,

That scarcely dar’d thy tender glance to meet,

Will yet a thought within thy bosom rise

Of her who moulders in her winding sheet?

When cold the hand, oft fondly press’d in vain,

That trembled still thy pressure to return,

That feebly pens this last sad parting strain,

Shall lie inactive in a nameless urn;

Wilt thou not weep? or can thy harden’d heart

Nor aught of love, nor tender pity, feel

For her who sinks the victim of thy art,

And dies her wrongs and anguish to conceal!

Behold me hast’ning to the silent tomb,

And thou, the murd’rer of my peace and fame;

Yet uncomplaining will I bear my doom,

Nor load with one reproach thy cherish’d name.

May Heav’n forgive thee, as I now forgive,

And love and joy yet wait, dear youth! on thee:

Yet, oh! my Henry! when I cease to live,

Think, sometimes think, upon my love and me!

Poor Ida ceas’d—for through her shudd’ring frame

The blood ran cold, the pulse forgot to play;

O’er her dim closing eyes dark shadows came,

And pale in death the lovely victim lay.

Beneath this turf poor Ida’s form is laid—

Stop, gentle fair! the pitying tear is due;

For know, that once the broken-hearted maid

Was happy, fair, and innocent as you!

Upon a wild and rugged coast,

Where loud the ocean surges tost,

A solitary watch-tow’r stood,

And frown’d upon the restless flood.

In many a wild fantastic shape

Rose the rude cliff and jutting cape;

Behind, a lone, deep valley green,

And woody mountains clos’d the scene.

Seldom in that deep valley’s green

Was print of human footstep seen,

And seldom were the echoes woke

But the wild sea-bird’s cry to mock.

Save when the lawless pirate crew

To this, their rude retreat, withdrew;

Then Echo, from her inmost cell,

Return’d the rev’llers mingled yell.

No female footstep ever trod

The solitary bleak abode;

Nor aught was heard of woman fair—

Save one—and she was captive there.

There, day by day, she wept and sigh’d

And still the swelling billows ey’d;

And when fair Summer deck’d the vale,

Her sad song floated on the gale.—

Oh! Heav’n, how irksome ’tis to view

The summer-sky’s delightful blue,

From this dull prison, day by day;

And waste my life in sighs away!

How irksome too, to hear the wave

The level beach so softly lave;

While my parch’d lips can scarce inhale

Thy gentle breath, sweet western gale.

Oh! come again, sweet cooling breeze,

On viewless wings across the seas;

Breathe softer than a lover’s sigh,

This prison’s lofty window by.

Oh, me! how oft by fancy led,

My native flow’ry fields I tread;

Then start from the dear soothing dream,

Rous’d by the passing sea-bird’s scream.

Far distant from this rugged strand

Spread thy fair plains, my native land!

But never more these eyes shall see

That native land so dear to me!

Oh, fatal hour! oh, fatal day!

That bore me from those plains away,

A pirate’s slave—a pirate’s love—

Oh, worse than slavery to prove!

Beneath Iberia’s genial skies

I open’d first these languid eyes;

And wealth was mine, and high degree—

Ah! what avail’d they—am I free?

’Mid orange groves, and citron bow’rs,

How swiftly flew my happy hours!

What made those hours so swiftly move?

’Twas Henry’s smile! ’twas Henry’s love!

But Henry was no mighty lord;

His all—his honour and his sword—

Sprung from a haughty, ancient line,

A stern and cruel sire was mine.

We fled—ah! what could lovers do,

Or what but ruin could ensue?—

A father’s curse, a mother’s wail,

I heard in ev’ry passing gale!

We fled, to seek fair Albion’s land,

And left at night Laredo’s strand;

The star-beams twinkled on the wave—

Destin’d, alas! for Henry’s grave!

The stars were hid,— the storm came forth,

Loud blust’ring from the angry North;

Driv’n far to sea, the shatter’d bark

Rode the rude billows through the dark.

And when the orient morn arose

So bright—in mock’ry of our woes—

O’er the calm’d billows azure sheen

The pirate’s blood-red flag was seen.

I cannot, cannot tell the rest—

I saw the life-blood stain his vest—

I saw him die—I shriek’d, I fell—

Would then had toll’d my fun’ral knell!

But many a morn, to these sad eyes

Black with despair, was yet to rise;

To this dark den of robbers borne,

From hope, from life, from freedom torn.

The pirate’s love—the pirate’s slave—

Oh! worse than torture and the grave!—

When, when will Death these eye-lids seal,

When shall this bosom cease to feel!

But hush! the western breeze is fled;

The foamy billow rears its head,

And fast athwart the low’ring sky

The gath’ring clouds in tumult fly.

Oh! Heav’n! that now the tempest’s pow’r

Would shatter wide this hateful tow’r,

And set me free from thraldom sore,

Or crush me here to weep no more!

Hark! far above, the thunder’s crash—

See through the gloom the lightning’s flash—

The tow’r rocks wildly to the storm,

And freedom comes in death’s pale form!

The captive’s voice was heard no more,

The tow’r’s huge fragments strew’d the shore;

And nought was seen where once it stood,

But the rude cliff above the flood.

And many a year has now gone by

Since the rude watch-tow’r frown’d on high,

Nor voy’ger’s boat, nor pirate band,

E’er tread the long-deserted strand.

Yet when the seaman anchors there,

Fresh water from the spring to bear;

In lone valley’s gloomiest green

A strange and shadowy form is seen.

Sudden along the heaving tide,

The passing spirit seems to glide—

So ghastly pale—so dimly fair—

Then mixes with the viewless air.

My parents smile upon us too,

And love my Gavin as their child!”

Thus youthful Rosa sung, and flew

To meet him in the flow’ry wild.

’Twas morning hour, the sunny beams

Had scarcely sipp’d the dews away;

Bright were the fields, the woods, and streams,

And loud the sweet lark’s matin lay.

Serenely bloom’d the landscape round,

And rapture throbb’d in Rosa’s heart,

For there no vice had entrance found,

But all was pure and void of art.

She tripp’d along the verdant vale,

And almost reach’d the destin’d grove,

When, lo! upon the whisp’ring gale

Breath’d a soft voice—the voice of love.

She stopp’d—for well she knew that voice—

“Alas! to whom can Gavin speak?—

To meet me here was Gavin’s choice”—

And deeper blushes dy’d her cheek.

She saw him through the chequer’d shade—

She mark’d the rapture in his eye—

She saw a lovely stranger maid,

That smil’d, and gave him sigh for sigh.

She heard him all his vows repeat;

Quick throbb’d her heart—she heard no more,

But swiftly turn’d her trembling feet,

And sought the river’s fatal shore.

“Gavin!” she cried—he caught the word;

Echo return’d the desp’rate cry—

But, ah! too late false Gavin heard,

He only came to see her die.

Stretch’d on the river’s brink she lay;

An aged shepherd rais’d her head,

And sadly shook his tresses grey,

And sorrow’d o’er the dying maid.

Her fading eye was dim with death,

Her drenched ringlets loosely flow,

And short and quick the parting breath

Upheav’d her bosom’s virgin snow.

He would have spoke—but conscious guilt

And wild remorse his bosom wrung;

And more than death the traitor felt

As o’er the injur’d maid he hung.

“False!—yet belov’d—forgiv’n—adieu!”—

Her quiv’ring lips no more could say;

To happier realms the spirit flew—

To realms of everlasting day!

Poor Rosa! in the grave was laid;

But frantic Gavin, far and wide,

Long, long, a houseless maniac stray’d,

Still raving on his murder’d bride.

And she, whose base, detested fraud

Had lur’d his erring heart astray,

Despis’d, deserted, and abhor’d,

In friendless mis’ry pines away.

Alas! that beauty, like the rose,

Should live but for a summer’s day;

And like that fairest flow’r disclose

A blossom only to decay!

When time shall dim that sparkling eye,

And wrinkle Sylvia’s brow so fair,

And bid those blooming blushes die,

And silver o’er that auburn hair;

When ev’ry charm you boast shall fade

By cruel fate’s severe decree;

What then remains, my lovely maid,

Ah, Sylvia! what remains for me?

When that fair form shall cease to charm,

And ev’ry beauty shall depart;

What then the lover’s breast shall warm—

Oh! what shall rivet Lubin’s heart?

Turn from thy treach’rous glass awhile;

Thy soul’s neglected culture see!

Let that with virtue’s radiance smile,

And Lubin only lives for thee.

For looks it well in wedded wife

To laugh, to flirt, to dress, and stare?

I want, dear maid, a friend for life,

To crown its joy, and soothe its care.

The lover’s eye perchance they bless,—

But when the gordian knot is tied,

Farewell to folly, glare, and dress;

Adieu to vanity and pride!

Far other scenes demand thy care;

Let these alone thy thoughts employ;

Then, e’en in age, I’ll think thee fair,

And in thee find perpetual joy.