And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound:

And the blade of the bloody Norse
Has fill'd the shores of the Gael
With many a floating corse,

And with many a woman's wail.

They have lighted the islands with Ruin's torch. And the holy men of Iona's church

In the temple of God lay slain;

All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh's bride?

Rocks of the ocean flood!

Plunged she not from your heights in pride,
And mock'd the men of blood?
Then Ulvfagre and his bands

In the temple lighted their banquet up,
And the print of their blood-red hands

Was left on the altar-cup.

'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three,

And every torch grew dim

That lighted their revelry.

But the torches again burnt bright,

And brighter than before,

When an aged man of majestic height
Enter'd the temple door.

Hush'd was the revellers' sound,

They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound Of his footstep's measured tread, Nor word was spoken by one beholder,

While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder, And stretching his arms-as eath

Unriveted Aodh's bands,

As if the gyves had been a wreath
Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude

To the ancient statue's form;
The Saint before his own image stood,
And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver
Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,

They lifted the spear and sword, And levell'd their spears in rows. But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,
And though Ulvfagre will'd it not,

He came and stood at the statue's foot,
Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,
And the tottering image was dash'd
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh. and brain,
It crush'd as millstone crushes the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,

"Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, "And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died
That slaughter'd the flock of God.
Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood
The fragments of that avenging stone
That drank his Heathen blood.
These are the spoils from Iona's sack,
The only spoils ye shall carry back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword
Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,
And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock.

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gael,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.

Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand And look'd on them silently;

Save 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 TURKISH LADY. 'Twas the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose: Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace Came an eastern lady bright: She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of sabbath bell?"

"'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war-

"In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made
Bleeding for my Christian nation,
By the walls of high Belgrade."

THE BRAVE ROLAND.* THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland!False tidings reached the Rhenish strand That he had fallen in fight;

And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain O loveliest maiden of Allemayne!

For the loss of thy 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 Drachenfells 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,
Had he come but yester-even:
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.

Yet Roland the brave-Roland the truc-
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 blest 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 look'd 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 fill'd his dying brain,

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

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 woo'd her in their wonted bower of love,

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

The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles

above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the

romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.

"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.

GILDEROY.

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows' tree!

The bell has toll'd: it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame ?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart?

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the riband green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound

That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away.

THE RITTER BANN. THE Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry

And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom,
And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,-Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer.

'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks, A fresh and fair old man;

His reverend air arrested even

The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire,

The Ritter's colour went and came, And loud he spoke in ire.

"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane, Name not her name to me;

I wish it blotted from my brain:
Art poor ?-take alms, and flee."

"Sir Knight," the Abbot interposed,
"This case your ear demands
And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed
In both her trembling hands:

"Remember, each his sentence waits;
And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut.

"You wedded undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring;-
In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen's pardoning,

"Her house denounced your marriage-band,

Betrothed her to De Grey,

And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrench'd by force away.

"Then wept your Jane upon my neck,
Crying, Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'
But word arrived-ah me!-

"You were not there; and 'twas their threat,
By foul means or by fair,
To-morrow morning was to set
The seal on her despair.

"I had a son, a sea-boy, in
A ship at Hartland bay;
By his aid, from her cruel kin
I bore my bird away.

"To Scotland from the Devon's

Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread.

"She wrote you by my son, but ho
From England sent us word
You had gone into some far country,
In grief and gloom he heard.

"For they that wrong'd you, to elude

Your wrath, defamed my child;
And you-ay, blush, Sir, as you should-
Believed, and were beguiled.

"To die but at your feet, she vow'd
To roam the world; and we
Would both have sped and begg'd our bread,
But so it might not be.

"For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness proof
As child e'er grew like man.

Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn,
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that Love has whisper'd here,

Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;

As Love's own altar honour me,

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree

HALLOWED GROUND.

WHAT'S hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man,
the image of his God,

Erect and free,

Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee?

That's hallow'd ground-where, mourn'd and miss'd,

The lips repose our love has kiss'd;-
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon church-yard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground

Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love's first links were wound,
'That ne'er are riven,

Is hallow'd down to earth's profound,
And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould,
And will not cool,
Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind ·
And is he dead, whose glorious mind