'T was now the dead watch of the night-the helm was

Fashed a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea;

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud :

"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.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

IF any white-winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,

The day when thou wert born, my love-
He surely blessed that day.

I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty's magic powers,
That ripened life's dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.

My mind had lovely shapes portrayed;
But thought I earth had one
Could make even Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed, and felt upon my lips

The unfinished accents hang:
One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning's flash
Those trancéd moments flew,

Not all the waves of time shall wash

Their memory from my

view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes,

Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

SONG.

O, How hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind!
And if that one should be

False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing "Woe 's me

Woe's me

?

Love's a boundless burning waste,

Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet

even when we sigh "Woe 's me!"

ADELGITHA.

THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale ADELGITHA came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, delivered from her danger;

But when he knelt to claim her glove--"Seek not," she cried, "O! gallant stranger, For hapless ADELGITHA's love.

For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arms should now have set me free;

And I must wear the willow garland
For him that's dead, or false to me."

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"-
He raised his visor. At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!

LINES

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M—, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.

THIS wax returns not back more fair

The impression of the gift you

send,

Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!

We are not friends of yesterday;
But poets' fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool (they say),-
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,
And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe
This little signet yet may lock,-
What utterances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock!

What scenes of life's yet curtained stage
May own its confidential die,

Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page,

And feelings of futurity!

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift
To date the epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet;

Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reached its influence most benign – When every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song

That erst the adventurous Norman wore, Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillan Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.

No! but it tells me of a heart
Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art-
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!

KATHERINE! to many an hour of mine

Light wings and sunshine you have lent;

And so adieu, and still be thine

The all-in-all of life - Content!