8.

Fair evening shone on Lochnafoil

In floods of golden light,

And sky, and wood, were gleaming red,
And distant mountain height.

9.

Sweet slept the Lake in holy calm;
No life its stillness stirred,
Save where a shallop o'er its breast
Skimmed lightly, as a bird.

10.

But sudden o'er that peaceful scene

A gust came sweeping by,
That woke to life the dreaming waves,

And veiled the azure sky.

11.

And thicker still the clouds trooped round,

Like warriors to the fight;
The Storm-King, with his fiery wings,

Came riding on the night.

Loud peeled the thunder round his head;

In lightnings flashed his eye;

Still louder grew the wat'ry strife;

The winds howled furiously.

13.

When, lo! amidst the pitchy gloom,

Dark tossing on the waves,

That little shallop still the rage

Of wind and water braves.

14.

Ah, Jesu! what a flash was there!
That darted from yon cloud :
Yet far above the thunder peal
Rings out a death-shriek loud.

15.

It rove yon bark, that lightning stroke,
And, past all hope to save,

Lord Ronald and his lovely bride
Sank to their watʼry grave.

16.

Alas! for Ronald and his bride!
The waters closed o'er,

As, folded in each other's arms,

They sank to rise no more.

17.

No weeping friends their death-bed soothed, Or stayed Life's slow decay;

But 'midst the raging of the storm

Their souls were snatched away.

18.

Their death was mourned by no sad wail,

No gentle village bell;

The wild winds sung their requiem;

The thunder tolled their knell.

19.

In the sky above they found their pall,

That heaven hiding cloud;

In the foaming waves of Lochnafoil

Their nuptial-bed and shroud.

GEORGE HERBERT.

Having mentioned the name of Herbert, that model of a man, a gentleman, and a clergyman, let me add that the quaintness of some of his thoughts, not of his diction, than which nothing can be more pure, manly, and unaffected, has blinded modern readers to the general merit of his poems, which are for the most part exquisite in their kind."-The Friend, Vol. I. p. 53.

THERE are few poets, possessed of equal merits and claims to the affectionate remembrance of posterity, who have been so unjustly consigned to oblivion and neglect, as GEORGE HERBERT. In these later days, it is true, he is beginning again to be appreciated. His bread was cast upon the waters; after many days it has been found. For though it is incontestably proved, by the number of editions that his works have passed through, that he has never been entirely forgotten, yet the thread of his readers, though never broken, has always been very slight. There are many causes which may have produced this effect; none, perhaps, more immediate, than the stormy times which his writings, at their very outset, had to encounter. The stirring and uncertain vicissitudes of the rebellion, by which the whole country was then convulsed, were not calculated to foster poetry, or encourage learning. Few of the stiff, sour Puritans were likely to enter into the sweet spirit of Herbert; many would condemn him as "an ungodly sinner, and a man of