Rocking on the billowy air,

Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell! The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, That veils its genius from the vulgar eye: The spirit of the water rides the storm, And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his form.

I. 3.

O'er solid seas, where winter reigns,
And holds each mountain wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer
By glistering starlight through the snow,
Breathes softly in her wondering ear
Each potent spell thou badest him know.
By thee inspired, on India's sands,
Full in the sun the Brahmin stands ;
And, while the panting tigress hies
To quench her fever in the stream,
His spirit laughs in agonies,

Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam.
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,*
Blooming in her bridal vest :

She hurls the torch! she fans the fire!
To die is to be blest:

She clasps her lord to part no more,
And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar.
O'ershadowing Scotia's desert coast,

The sisters sail in dusky state,t
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,
Weave the airy web of fate;

While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,‡ Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.

II. 1.

Thou spakest, and lo! a new creation glow'd.
Each unhewn mass of living stone
Was clad in horrors not its own,
And at its base the trembling nations bow'd.
Giant Error, darkly grand,
Grasp'd the globe with iron hand.
Circled with seats of bliss, the lord of light
Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.
The statue, waking with immortal powers,§
Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the
spheres ;

Th' indignant pyramid sublimely towers,
And braves the efforts of a host of years.
Sweet music breathes her soul into the wind;
And bright-eyed painting stamps the image of the
mind.

II. 2.

Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise!
A timbrell'd anthem swells the gale,
And bids the god of thunders hail ;||

With lowings loud the captive god replies.

The funeral rite of the Hindoos.

+ The fates of the northern mythology. See Mallet's

Antiquities.

An allusion to the second-sight.

Clouds of incense woo thy smile,

Scaly monarch of the Nile !*

But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee!
Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.
Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,
Lock'd up in characters as dark as night ?‡
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare ex-
plore,§

To which the parted soul oft wings her flight;
Again to visit her cold cell of clay,
Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at
decay.

II. 3.

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright|
With purple ether's liquid light,

High o'er the world, the white-robed magi gaze
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire;
Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
Each flame that flits with adverse spire.
But say, what sounds my ear invade
From Delphi's venerable shade?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves!
"The god! the god!" the sibyl cries.¶
Her figure swells, she foams, she raves!
Her figure swells to more than mortal size!
Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies:
Wake, echo, wake and catch the song,

O catch it, ere it dies !

The sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain she checks the god's control;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her soul,

Breathing a prophetic flame.

The cavern frowns! its hundred mouths unclose! And in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows!

III. 1.

Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
E'en whisper to the idle air;

Rites that have chain'd old ocean on his bed.
Shiver'd by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids th' imperial eagle fly,'
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark! the bard's soul inspires the vocal string!
At every pause dread silence hovers o'er:
While murky night sails round on raven wing,
Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's

roar;

Chased by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowl'd on the black wave below.

* The crocodile.

+ According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt to find a god than a man.

The hieroglyphics.

§ The catacombs.

"The Persians," says Herodotus, "have no temples, altars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the high

¶ Æn. VI. 46, etc.

The bull, Apis.

**See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29.

III. 2. Lo, steel-clad war his gorgeous standard rears! The red cross squadrons madly rage,* And mow through infancy and age; Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise. Hear, with what heartfelt beat, the midnight bell Swings its slow summons through the hollow pile!

The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell, To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ; With choral chantings vainly to aspire, Beyond this nether sphere, on rapture's wing of fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!
While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Canst thou, with all thy terrors crown'd,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Destined to shine when suns are dark?
Thy triumphs cease! through every land,
Hark! truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease!
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and peace.
Flush'd with youth, her looks impart

Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of a heart

Pure as the mountain snows:
Celestial transports round her play
And softly, sweetly die away.

She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blacken'd o'er thy baleful reign?
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,

Shrinking from her glance in vain.
Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above,
And lo! it visits man with beans of light and love.

VERSES

WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.+

YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain;
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.
Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!
Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set,
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,
Where I died last-by poison or the sword;
Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.

-To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality, and broke the spell.
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!

This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, p. 34.

After a tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.

Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assign'd?
Ah no! she scorns the trappings of her art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart
But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask?
Is here no other actress? let me ask.
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage effect.
She moulds her manners to the part she fills,
As instinct teaches, or as humour wills;
And as the grave or gay her talent calls,

Acts in the drama till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breast with triumph swells When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp that longest of perpetual motions! -Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, She sports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, man.

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! Then comes that good old character, a wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, bał, A meteor, traced by none, though seen by all; And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home.

Last, the gray dowager, in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal ; With modern belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages ; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old ruin, "nodding to its fall!"

Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Yet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns control, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art, And to full day the latent passions start!

And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.

There once the steel-clad knight reclined,
His sable plumage tempest toss'd;
And, as the death-bell smote the wind,
From towers long fled by human kind
His brow the hero cross'd!

Then culture came, and days serene;
And village sports, and garlands gay.
Full many a pathway cross'd the green;
And maids and shepherd youths were seen
To celebrate the May.

Father of many a forest deep,
Whence many a navy thunder fraught
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep,
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep,
Opening new spheres of thought!
Wont in the night of woods to dwell,
The holy Druid saw thee rise;
And, planting there the guardian spell,
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell
Of human sacrifice!

Thy singed top and branches bare
Now straggle in the evening sky;
And the wan moon wheels round to glare
On the long corse that shivers there
Of him who came to die!

TO TWO SISTERS.*

WELL may you sit within, and, fond of grief,
Look in each other's face, and melt in tears.
Well may you shun all counsel, all relief.
O, she was great in mind, though young in years!
Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed
Light when she spoke, and kindled sweet surprise,
As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread,
Play'd round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes.
Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade,
Still to the last enliven'd and endear'd.
Those eyes at once her secret soul convey'd,
And ever beam'd delight when you appear'd.
Yet has she fled the life of bliss below,
That youthful hope in bright perspective drew?
False were the tints! false as the feverish glow
That o'er her burning cheek distemper threw !
And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves!
(Glory and joy reserved for you to share.)
Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves
Than they, alas! unconscious of her care.

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control
Of love or pity, joy or grief.
The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream,
In reason's philosophic page.

That very law* which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.t

Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor?
Aëris et linguæ sum filia;

Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum.-Ausonius.

ONCE more, enchantress of the soul,
Once more we hail thy soft control.
-Yet whither, whither didst thou fly?
To what bright region of the sky?
Say, in what distant star to dwell?
(Of other worlds thou seem'st to tell)
Or trembling, fluttering here below,
Resolved and unresolved to go,
In secret didst thou still impart
Thy raptures to the pure in heart?
Perhaps to many a desert shore,
Thee, in his rage, the tempest bore ;
Thy broken murmurs swept along,
'Mid echoes yet untuned by song;
Arrested in the realms of frost,
Or in the wilds of ether lost.

Far happier thou! 'twas thine to soar
Careering on the winged wind.
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore?
Suns and their systems left behind.
No tract of space, no distant star,
No shock of elements at war,
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire
Bore thee amidst the cherub-choir;
And there a while to thee 'twas given
Once more that voice‡ beloved to join,
Which taught thee first a flight divine,
And nursed thy infant years with many a strain
from heaven!

TO THE

FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES,

COMMONLY CALLED THE TORSO.

AND dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone,
(Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurl'd,)
Still sit as on the fragment of a world;
Surviving all, majestic and alone?

What though the spirits of the north, that swept
Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept,
Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk
Deep in the dust 'mid tower and temple sunk;
Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise,
Still, still unquell'd thy glorious energies!
Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught*
Bright revelations of the good they sought;
By thee that long-lost spellt in secret given,
To draw down gods, and lift the soul to heaven!

AH! little thought she, when, with mild delight,
By many a torrent's shining track she flew,
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night
O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
That her light footsteps should be heard no more,
That she should die-nor watch'd, alas! nor wept
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.
Yet round her couch indulgent fancy drew
The kindred forms her closing eye required.
There didst thou stand-there, with the smile she
knew,

She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired.
And now to thee she comes; still, still the same
As in the hours gone unregarded by !

To thee, how changed! comes as she ever came
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,
By the way-side she shed her parting tears-
For ever lovely in the light of youth!

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. THERE, in that bed so closely curtain'd round, Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, A father sleeps! O hush'd be every sound! Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise; Till through the shutter'd pane the morning streams And on the hearth the glimmering rushlight dies.

*In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius H., it was long the favourite study of those great men to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and the Carracci.

Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may be lieve an ancient epigram on the Guidian Venus.-Analecta Vet. Poetarum, III. 200.

On the death of her sister.

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.* "SAY, what remains when hope is fled?" She answer'd," Endless weeping!" For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping.

At Embsay rung the matin-bell, The stag was roused on Barden fell; The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, In tartan clad and forest green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen, Blithe was his song, a song of yore; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through, His voice was heard no more! 'Twas but a step! the gulf he pass'd But that step-it was his last! As through the mist he wing'd his way, (A cloud that hovers night and day,) The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin too. That narrow place of noise and strife Received their little all of life!

There now the matin-bell is rung; The "Miserere!" duly sung; And holy men in cowl and hood Are wandering up and down the wood. But what avail they? Ruthless lord, Thou didst not shudder when the sword Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the innocent. Sit now and answer groan for groan, The child before thee is thy own. And she who wildly wanders there The mother in her long despair, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river roll'd.

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. ON thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. As on she moves with hesitating grace, She wins assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice.

In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterward established there by his uncle, David, King of Scotland.

He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See Whittaker's Hist. of Craven.