For the Norse dropped spear, and bow, and brand,

And looked on them silently.

Safe from their hiding-places came

Orphans and mothers, child and dame :

But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given;

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,
And her spirit was in heaven.

THE SPECTRE BOAT.

A BALLAD.

LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he wooed her in her wonted bower of

love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal view,

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue.

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but shuddering, pale, and dumb,

Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour

was come.

'Twas now the dead watch of the night-the helm was lashed a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea;

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud :

"Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with Heaven!"

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her

call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,

For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her

hand,

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland! 51
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;

And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allémayne!

For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale?

For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung-
'Twas her own dear warrior's horn!

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed-shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck

Fiad he come but yester-even;

And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,

Or meet him but in heaven.

Yet Roland the brave-yet Roland the true-
He could not bid that spot adieu;

It was dear still 'midst his woes;

For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer
When the Halleluiah rose.

There's yet one window of that pile
Which he built above the Nun's green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he

(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below-
For herself he might not see.

She died !-He sought the battle-plain!
Her image filled his dying brain

When he fell, and wished to fall;
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.

(254)

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

IF any white-winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,

The day when thou wert born, my love-
He surely blessed that day.

I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty's magic powers,

That ripened life's dull ore to gold,

And changed its weeds to flowers.

13

My mind had lovely shapes portrayed;
But thought I earth had one
Could make even Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed and felt upon my lips

The unfinished accents hang:
One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning's flash
Those tranced moment's flew,

Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes
Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

LINES.

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST,
FROM K. M-, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.

THIS wax returns not back more fair
The impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!-

We are not friends of yesterday ;-
But poet's fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)—
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn

My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem, And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe
This little signet yet may lock,-
What utterances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock !

What scenes of life's yet curtained stage
May own its confidential die,

Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page,
And feelings of futurity !—

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date the epistolary sheet,

The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet;

Sent when the star that rules your fates
Hath reached its influence most benign-
When every heart congratulates

And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song-marked with the crest
That erst the advent'rous Norman wore,52
Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillan Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.

No!-but it tells me of a heart
Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art-
Our soul-sprung consanguinity !

195