MARK yonder cliff, whose rugged height
Seems in the sad moon's waning light,
A haunt for spirits of the sea,
To wake their midnight minstrelsy.
And hark-amid the water's roar,
Scarce heard upon its jutting shore,
Some echo of no mortal strain
Is heard-and all is mute again.

Stranger! the rocks that crown the dell
Full many a wond'rous tale can tell;-
Of ghouls imprisoned in their caves —
Of spirits dancing upon the waves;

Of shrieks and curses in the air,
So terrible, that none might dare

Approach the spot, save those who came
Storm-driv'n, in prostrate fear to claim
Stern mercy from the vengeful god;
Then, from his tempest-crown'd abode,
A voice like far-off thunder's moan
Muttered his parting malison;

And all the shuddering caves would quake
The while that voice of terror spake.
Nought human dwelt the mountain near,
Save one who mocked at mortal fear;
A lonely youth he was, and he
Seemed formed, in sooth, for mystery.
He gave his confidence to none;
He lived unloving and unknown;
There was a pride upon his brow
That brooked no softer passion's glow;

I saw him once; my lonely boat
Above the rapids chanced to float,
Close to the Cataract's edge;—to save
My bark, I dared approach the wave,
And when 't was safely brought to shore,
Looked back on peril braved before.
Loud did the troubled waters dash,
Wreathed by the tempest's fitful flash
And broad and burning bolts of heaven
Across the shrouded deep were driven.
I saw him, stranger, then; he stood
And looked upon the angry flood
Listening the welcome that it sent,
The voice of the stern element !

The spray dashed on his sullen brow,

But calmly he looked on the tumult below;

The death-bolts rattled around his head;

But their lightnings past him all harmless sped.

Morn came with her seraph witchery,
Her golden clouds,—her bright blue sky-

But he, who dreaded, shunned, so late

Had moved alone and desolate,

No more was seen; weeks, years passed on, And yet he did not come.

Some say, upon that fearful night
When he stood alone on yonder height,

Dark spirits, like his own, did come

To bear him to their mystic home.

I know not if the tale be sooth,
But listen, stranger, mine is truth;

At night, strange tones are heard to swell
From depths of that mysterious dell;
And ne'er will wandering peasant dare,
At twilight hour, to linger there;
And the fisherman, as he hears the cry
Of the wild storm-spirit, fluttering nigh,
Will rather brave the tempest's roar
Than moor his bark on that lonely shore.

A HINDO0 FEMALE.

THE intelligent and lamented American traveller, LEDYARD, in his volume of Travels, pays a tribute to women, which a residence in all countries under the sun, with scarce an exception, will not fail to confirm. He says, that wherever he sojourned-among nations barbarous or civilized, the tender ministry of the better sex to his comforts and his wants their humane feelings their devotedness to the welfare of friends or of dependants-and their endeavours, under all circumstances, rather to increase than diminish the happiness of those around them, were constant and uniform. And the testimony of thousands, who have been but sojourners and travellers, cosmopolitans, from choice and habit, for the best portions of their lives, — might be added to this true, though flattering, tribute. Even those who are supposed by many to be the most unprepossessing and repulsive of the human species, have been described, vividly too, by the great poet of nature, to whom all the passions of the heart seem to have been as familiar as an open book, -as capable of awakening commiseration and love in the brightest of the sex. When Othello, the Moor, met his much-desired Desdemona in Cyprus, after surviving storm and shipwreck, and having been charged even with sorcery in obtaining her mysterious affection, with what profound and absolute content of heart did he exclaim

"Oh, my soul's joy,

If after every tempest, come such calm,

Let the winds blow till they have wakened Death;
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas,
Olympus high, and duck again as low,

As hell 's from heaven!"

We believe, however faint the authority of the record, or the legend, from which Shakspeare may have drawn this consummate tragedy-which is supposed by many to have been the latest