'But now her stedfast heart can bear

'Unmov'd, the pressure of despair————

'When first the winds of winter urge their course 'O'er the pure stream, whose current smoothly glides,

"The heaving river swells its troubled tides; 'But when the bitter blast with keener force, 'O'er the high wave an icy fetter throws, The harden'd wave is fix'd in dead repose.''Say who that hoary form? alone he stands, • And meekly lifts his wither'd hands-

His white beard streams with blood'I see him with a smile, deride

'The wounds that pierce his shrivell❜d side,
• Whence flows a purple flood-
'But sudden pangs his bosom tear—
On one big drop of deeper dye,
• I see him fix his haggard eye
'In dark and wild despair!

'That sanguine drop which wakes his woe-
Say, spirit! whence its source.'-

'Ask no more its source to know-
• Ne'er shall mortal eye explore

• Whence flow'd that drop of human gore,
'Till the starting dead shall rise,

Unchain'd from earth, and mount the skies,
• And time shall end his fated course.'-
'Now th' unfathom'd depth behold-
• Look but once! a second glance

'Wraps a heart of human mould

In death's eternal trance.'

That shapeless phantom sinking flow • Deep down the vast abyss below, 'Darts, thro' the mists that shroud his frame, A horror, nature hates to name l'—

'Mortal, could thine eyes behold

All those sullen mists enfold,

Thy sinews at the sight accurst

Would wither, and thy heart-strings burst; 'Death would grasp with icy hand

And drag thee to our grizzly band'Away! the sable pall I spread,

And give to rest th' unquiet dead-
Haste! ere its horrid shroud enclose

Thy form, benumb'd with wild affright,
'And plunge thee far thro' wastes of night,
In yon black gulph's abhorr'd repose !'
As starting at each step I fly,

Why backward turns my frantic eye,
That closing portal past ?—

Two sullen shades half-seen advance !-
On me, a blasting look they cast,
And fix my view with dang'rous spells,
Where burning phrenzy dwells !—

Again their vengeful look-and now a speechless

NETLEY ABBEY.

BY W. SOTHEBY, ESQ.

SOFT on the wave the oars at distance sound,
The night-breeze sighing through the leafy spray,
With gentle whisper murmurs all around,
Breathes on the placid sea, and dies away.
As sleeps the Moon upon her cloudless height,
And the swoln spring-tide heaves beneath the light,
Slow lingering on the solitary shore
Along the dewy path my steps I bend,
Lonely to yon forsaken fane descend,

To muse on youth's wild dreams amid the ruin's hoar.

Within the shelter'd centre of the aisle,
Beneath the ash, whose growth romantic spreads
Its foliage trembling o'er the funeral pile,

And all around a deeper darkness sheds;

While through yon arch, where the thick ivy twines, Bright on the silver'd tow'r the moon-beam shines, And the grey cloyster's roofless length illumes, Upon the mossy stone I lie reclin'd,

And to a visionary world resign'd,

Call the pale spectres forth from the forgotten tombs.

Spirits the desolated wreck that haunt,

Who frequent by the village maiden seen,
When sudden shouts at eve the wanderer daunt,
And shapeless shadows sweep along the green;
And ye, in midnight horrors heard to yell
Round the destroyer of the holy cell,

With interdictions dread of boding sound;
Who, when he prowl'd the rifled walls among,
Prone on his brow the massy fragment flung ;-

Come from your viewless caves, and tread this hallow'd ground!

How oft, when homeward forc'd, at day's dim close,
In youth, as bending back I mournful stood
Fix'd on the fav'rite spot, where first arose
The pointed ruin peeping o'er the wood;
Methought I heard upon the passing wind
Melodious sounds in solemn chorus join'd,
Echoing the chaunted vesper's peaceful note,
Oft through the veil of night's descending cloud,
Saw gleaming far the visionary croud

Down the deep vaulted aisle in long procession float.

But now; no more the gleaming forms appear,
Within their graves at rest the fathers sleep;
And not a sound comes to the wistful ear,

Save the low murmur of the tranquil deep:
Or from the grass that in luxuriant pride
Waves o'er yon eastern window's sculptur❜d side,

The dew-drops bursting on the fretted stone: While faintly from the distant coppice heard, The music of the melancholy bird

Trills to the silent heav'n a sweetly-plaintive moan.

Farewell, delightful dreams, that charm'd my youth!
Farewell th' aërial note, the shadowy trail !
Now while this shrine inspires sublimer truth,
While cloyster'd echo breathes a solemn strain,
In the deep stillness of the midnight hour,
Wisdom shall curb wild fancy's magic pow'r,

And as with life's gay dawn th' illusions cease, Though from the heart steal forth a sigh profound; Here Resignation o'er its secret wound

Shall pour the lenient balm that soothes the soul to peace.

Vol. XIV.