And to hear in his boat, Where he shines like a star, Her lover so tenderly Touch his guitar. She opens her lattice, Of the moonlight and starlight, As she darts on her lover His love-speaking pantomime How wild in that sunny clime Hearts and eyes roll. She waves with her white hand Her white fazzolet, And her burning thoughts flash From her eye's living jet. The moonlight is hid In a vapour of snow; From the rock on the hill; They sing their farewell, And the music is still. ON SOME SKULLS IN BEAULEY ABBEY, NEAR INVERNESS. IN silent barren synod met Within these roofless walls, where yet The sever'd arch and carved fret Cling to the ruin, The brethren's skulls mourn, dewy wet, Their creed's undoing. The mitred ones of Nice and Trent But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant Your chronicles no more exist, That scrawl'd black letter; Well! I'm a craniologist, And may do better. This skull-cap wore the cowl from sloth, He tried escaping ; For men, though idle, may be loath To live on gaping. A toper this! he plied his glass Come to confession, Letting her absolution pass O'er fresh transgression. ON SOME SKULLS IN BEAULEY ABBEY. This crawl'd through life in feebleness, Cursing those crimes he scarce could guess, With prayers that Heaven would cease to bless Here's a true churchman!-he'd affect But thought no evil In sending heathen, Turk, and sect Poor skull, thy fingers set a-blaze, 'Mid bead and spangle, While others pass'd their idler days, In coil and wrangle. Long time this sconce a helmet wore,— His gear and plunder, Took to the cowl,-then raved and swore This lily-colour'd skull, with all The teeth complete, so white and small, A lover shaded; He died ere superstition's gall 6 His heart invaded. Ha! here is undivulged crime!' 29 30 ON SOME SKULLS IN BEAULEY ABBEY. Beyond this world, this mortal time Of fever'd sadness, Until their monkish pantomime Dazzled his madness. A younger brother this,―a man The trade of frightening; It smack'd of power!-and here he ran To deal Heaven's lightning. This idiot skull belong'd to one, A buried miser's only son, Who penitent, ere he'd begun To taste of pleasure, And hoping Heaven's dread wrath to shun, Gave hell his treasure. Here is the forehead of an ape, A robber's mark,—and near the nape Ah! he was one for theft and rape, In monkish fashion. This was the porter! he could sing, They ne'er were balk'd of, Matters not worth remembering, And seldom talk'd of. Enough! why need I farther pore? Of reverend brothers; 'Tis the same story o'er and o'er, They're like the others. A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE*. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. What now to her is all the world esteems? Its hopes and fears-its loathing and its love.-CRABBE. "Tis said she once was beautiful;—and still Though something touch'd by sorrow, you may trace Patient in suffering, she has learn'd the art • From a volume of poems printed for private circulation. |