IV.-FRAGMENTS WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE SUIR.

I've borne my pen to this, the slumberous haunt
Of infant Zephyrs, birds, and flowers, and bees-
To dignify my solitude with thought:

And thus interpreting the ideal forms
That shadow the still mirror of my soul,
Paint them in language as they pass. 'Tis vain!
Mine eyes are dim, surcharged with radiant hues,
And language will not answer to my call.
Nay, Sleep, the child of Silence, comes to seal
The gate of Sense, beckon the outgazings back
Of that strange spiritual eye which sees
A world in vacancy! "Twere better link
The pearls of poesie in chamber lone,
Gathering from thought, than thus to dare essay
To fix those charms which vary as we view,
And wilder the rapt gaze o'erpower'd, o'erswept,
By waves of ever-changing loveliness!

And yet this Stream, (as sure in course, as deep,
As silent, and as swift, as smothered hate
Maturing to determinate revenge:
-Words true, but alien to the quietude
Of my heart's sabbath sunshine-holy light!)
And yet this stream !--its noiseless prayer invites
A soul to company its tranquil way;

The soul to float upon a stream as smooth

Mid thoughts as fair as bloom its verdurous banks,
And like it picturing every changeful cloud

That gives and shrouds, and gives and shrouds again
The purity intense of Heaven! (Oh, such
Are the unquiet fancies that o'ercast

The still profound of soul.) Who hath not felt
How soothes the natural melody of streams,
And how their liquid-murmuring flow of light
Seduces weary hearts to reverie!

Spirit of brightest visions!--for to thee
Turns my fond soul in every raptured hour,
Links thee with every paradisal scene,

Peoples the grove, the grot, the glen with thee!-
How oft, surrendered to the placid sway

Of thee and fancy, have I heard upburst

The harmony that sleeps among the strings,

Roused by thy cunning hand! and as I've listened
My fancies gently modulant have flowed

As flowed the music from thy harp and heart,
Attracted into sweetest servitude,

The strong entrancement of the speaking strain:
While mine eyes closed, and left their sister sense
To reign alone, and Hearing then was Life!
So nature's music, struck from the deep waters,
Wiles on the willing soul to rainbow dreams,
To all that's fair-to Eden-land-to thee!

W. A. B.

And, helter-skelter, forward flew

That headlong train o'er plain and height; And still the yagers one and two

Preserved their places left and right; And soon a milk-white stag they spied With mighty antlers branching wide.

Afresh the Wildgrave winds his horn,
And horse and hound sweep on amain ;
When, hurled to earth, all gashed and torn,
A man lies trampled by the train.
"Ay! trample-to the devil trample!
Our princely sport must needs be ample."

And now, as in a field of corn

The panting prey a shelter seeks, A husbandman, with look forlorn,

Stands forth, uplifts his hands and speaks : "Oh! mercy, noble lord! and spare The poor man's sweat and hoary hair!

The pitying right-hand cavalier,

Then mildly warns and blandly pleads;

But, taunted by his horrid feere,

Who goads him on to devilish deeds, The Wildgrave fiercely spurns his warner, And hearkens to the left-hand scorner.

"Avaunt, vile dog!-else, by the devil," The Wildgrave shouted furiously

"My blood-hounds on thy bones shall revel: Halloo, companions! follow me!

And lash your whip-thongs in his ear,
Until the reptile quakes for fear !"

Soon said, soon done-the Wildgrave springs Across the fence with whoop and hollow,

And, bugle-filled, the welkin rings

As hound and horse and hunter follow,

Who trample down the yellow grain,
Until the ruin reeks again.

The sounds once more the stag awaken; Uproused, he flies o'er heights and plains,

Till, hotly chased, but uno'ertaken,

A pasture-ground at last he gains,
And cro ches down among the heather,
Where flocks and cattle browse together.

But on, by grot and wood and hill,

And on, by hill and wood and grot

The yelling dogs pursue him still,

And scent his track, and reach the spot;

Whereon the herdsman, filled with trouble, Falls face to earth before the Noble.

"O! mercy, lord! Let not thy hounds
On these defenceless creatures fall!
Bethink thee, noble Count, these grounds
Feed many a widow's little all!
Sirs, as ye hope for mercy yet,

Spare, spare the poor man's bitter sweat !"

And now the gentler cavalier

Renews his prayer, and sues and pleadsBut, taunted by his godless feere,

Who goads him on to hellish deeds, The Wildgrave scowls upon his warner, And hearkens to the left-hand scorner.

"Audacious clay-clod! hast thou done?
I would to Heaven thy herds and thou,
Calves, cows and sheep, were bound in one!
By all that's damnable I vow

That were ye thus, 'twould glad me well
To hunt ye to the gates of Hell!"

"Halloo, companions! follow me--
Ho! tally-ho! hurra! hurra!"
So on the hounds rush ragingly,

And grapple each his nearest prey:
Down sinks the herdsman, torn and mangled,
Down sink his herds, all gashed and strangled.

Grown feebler now, the stag essays,

His coat besplashed with foam and blood,

To reach, by many winding ways,

The covert of a neighbouring wood,

And, plunging down a darksome dell,
Takes refuge in a hermit's cell.

But hark! the horn, the clangorous horn,
The harsh hurra and stunning cheer

Along the blast afresh are borne,

And horse and huntsman follow here,

Till, startled by the barbarous rout,

The old recluse himself comes out.

"Back, impious man! What! wilt profane GOD's venerated sanctuary?

Behold! His creatures' groans of pain

Even now call down his wrath on thee: Be warned, I charge thee, for the last time, Or swift perdition waits thy pastime !"

Again the right-hand cavalier

In earnest mood entreats and pleads; But, taunted by his grisly feere,

Who goads him still to hellish deeds, The Count shakes off his faithful warner, And hearkens to the left-hand scorner.

"Perdition here, perdition there,

The devil may care," the Wildgrave cried; "Ay, even through Heaven itself I swear I'd count it noble sport to ride. What care I, dolt! for thee or Gon? I'll have my will and way, unawed."

He sounds his whip, he winds his horn"Halloo, companions! Forward! On!" But, scattered like the mists of morn,

Lo! horse and hound and man are gone! And echoing horns and yagers' hollows The stillness of the grave-porch swallows.

The Wildgrave glances round, amazed;
In vain the bugle meets his lip;
In vain his toneless voice is raised;
In vain he tries to wield his whip;
He spurs his horse on either side,
But neither to nor fro can ride.

All round the air shows clogged with gloom,
And through its blackness dense and dread
Sweep sounds as when the surges boom.
Anon above the Wildgrave's head
Red lightning cleaves the cloud asunder,
And then these words burst forth in thunder,

"O! foe of Heaven and Human-kind!
Accursed wretch, less man than fiend!
Whom neither love nor law can bind,
Even now thy victims' cries ascend
Before the judgment-seat of GOD,
Where Justice grasps the avenging rod.

"Fly, monster, fly! and henceforth be Chased night and day by demon-hordes,

The sport of Hell eternally,

For warning to those ruthless lords

Who, sooner than forego their mirth,

Would desolate both Heaven and Earth !"

A lurid twilight, sulphur-pale,

Forthwith envelopes wild and wood : What horrors now his heart assail!

What frenzy fires his brain and blood! While that pale sulphur-lightning flashes, And ice-winds hiss and thunder crashes.

Then thunder groans, the ice-winds blow, The woods are clad in sulphur-sheen; When, rising from the earth below,

A black, gigantic hand is seen, Which grasps the Wildgrave by the hair, And whirls him round and round in air,