He ceased: no echo gave again
The murmur of the deep Amen.

THE WEDDING.

[From the same.]

A BLITHESOME rout, that morning tide,
Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride.
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave
To Norman, heir of Armandave,
And, issuing from the Gothic arch,
The bridal now resumed their march.
In rude, but glad procession, came
Bonnetted sire and coif-clad dame;
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer,
Which snooded maiden would not hear;
And children, that, unwitting why,
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;
And minstrels, that in measure vied
Before the young and bonny bride,
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose
The tear and blush of morning rose.
With virgin step, and bashful hand,
She held the kerchief's snowy band;
The gallant bridegroom, by her side,
Beheld his prize with victor's pride,
And the glad mother in her ear
Was closely whispering word of cheer.

Who meets them at the church-yard gate?
The messenger of fear and fate!
Haste in his hurried accent lies,
And grief is swimming in his eyes.
All dripping from the recent flood,
Panting and travel-soil'd he stood,
The fatal sign of fire and sword

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word;
"The muster-place is Lanrick mead.
Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!"-
And must he change so soon the hand,
Just link'd to his by holy band,

For the fell cross of blood and brand ?
And must the day, so blithe that rose,
And promised rapture in the close,

Before its setting hour, divide

The bridegroom from the plighted bride?
O fatal doom!-it must! it must!
Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust,
Her summons dread, brooks no delay;
Stretch to the race-away! away!
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,
And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride,
Until he saw the starting tear
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer;
Then, trusting not a second look,
In haste he sped him up the brook,
Nor backward glanced till on the heath
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith.
-What in the racer's bosom stirred?
The sickening pang of hope deferred,
And memory, with a torturing train
Of all his morning visions vain.
Mingled with love's impatience, came
The manly thirst of martial fame;
The stormy joy of mountaineers,
Ere yet they rush upon the spears;
And zeal for clan and chieftain burning,

And hope, from well-fought field returning,
With war's red honours on his crest,

To clasp his Mary to his breast.

Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae,
Like fire from flint he glanced away,
While high resolve, and feeling strong,
Burst into voluntary song:

SONG.

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary!

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.

No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary!

A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose

To my young bride and me, Mary!

FAREWELL ADDRESS

TO THE

HARP OF THE NORTH,

[From the same.]

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee,

Yet once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!
Yet once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I if the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay,

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone:

That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has wak'd thy string!
'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire,
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wand'ring witch-note of the distant spell-
And now, 'tis silence all !-Enchantress, fare thee well!

THE SACRIFICE.

[From SOUTHEY'S CURSE OF KEHAMA.]

THE Sun rides high; the hour is nigh;
The multitude who long,
Lest aught should mar the rite,
In circle wide on every side,
Have kept the Steed in sight,

Contract their circle now, and drive him on.
Drawn in long files before the Temple-court,
The Rajah's archers flank an ample space;
Here, moving onward still, they drive him near,
Then, opening, give him way to enter here.

Behold him, how he starts and flings his head!
On either side in glittering order spread,
The archers ranged in narrowing lines appear;
The multitude behind close up the rear
With moon-like bend, and silently await
The awful end,

The rite that shall from Indra wrest his power.
In front, with far-stretch'd walls, and many a tower
Turret and dome and pinnacle elate,
The huge Pagoda seems to load the land:
And there before the gate,
The Brahmin band expectant stand,
The axe is ready for Kehama's hand.
Hark! at the Golden Palaces

The Brahmin strikes the time!
One, two, three, four, a thrice-told chime,
And then again, one, two.

The bowl that in its vessel floats anew
Must fill and sink again,

Then will the final stroke be due.
The Sun rides high, the noon is nigh,
And silently, as if spell-bound,
The multitude expect the sound.

Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens with approaching night.

Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast-
'Tis vengeance visible, and pain supprest:
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,

His proud soul wrestles with o'er-mast'ring fate;
That pang the conflict ends-he falls not yet-
Seems ev'ry nerve for one last effort set,

At once, by death, death's ling'ring power to brave-
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave-
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy-to die.

Unfear'd is now that cord, which oft ensnared
The baffled rival whom his falchion spar'd;

Those clarions mute, which, on the murd'rous stage,
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage:
Once pois'd by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield, which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fix'd eye dwells upon the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he pray'd-

"Oh! might I yet, by one avenging blow,
"Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"

Vain hope!-the streams of life-blood fast descend;
That giant-arm's upbearing strength must bend;
Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!

But his were deeds unchronicled: his tomb
No patriot wreaths adorn; to cheer his doom,
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquest for his country won;
And he, whose sculptur'd form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas-he dies without a name!

Haply to grace some Cæsar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling-champion died,

When Rome, degen'rate Rome, for barb'rous shows
Barter'd her virtue, glory, and repose,

Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
For pomps of death, and theatres of blood!