The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell)

First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell; Still in your vales they swell the choral song!

But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair,

The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in bright auburn o'er her polish'd brow!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day,

The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave;

And blest the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band,

Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!

"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove,

With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom!

"Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind."

STROPHE II.

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way,

Unholy woman! with thy hands imbrued

In thine own children's gore? Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed

The mother strikes-the guiltless babes shall fall!

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting.

When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear?

No! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry,—

In dust we kneel-by sacred Heaven imploreO! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,

Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume,
Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan?
Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom?
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?
When o'er each babe you look a last adieu,
And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep,
Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true,

Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep? When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,— Ay, thou shalt melt;-and many a heart-shed tear Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair!

Nature shall throb in every tender string,-
Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny;-
Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling
The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye.

CHORUS.

Hallow'd Earth! with indignation
Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed!
Radiant eye of wide creation,

Watch the damned parricide!
Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter
Perpetrate the dire design,
And consign to kindred slaughter
Children of thy golden line!

Shall thy hand, with murder gory,
Cause immortal blood to flow?
Sun of Heaven! array'd in glory
Rise, forbid, avert the blow!

In the vales of placid gladness

Let no rueful maniac range; Chase afar the fiend of Madness,

Wrest the dagger from Revenge!

Say, hast thou, with kind protection,
Rear'd thy smiling race in vain ;
Fostering Nature's fond affection,
Tender cares, and pleasing pain?

Hast thou on the troubled ocean

Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among?

Didst thou roam the paths of danger,
Hymenean joys to prove?
Spare, O sanguinary stranger,

Pledges of thy sacred love!

Shall not Heaven, with indignation,

Watch thee o'er the barbarous deed? Shalt thou cleanse, with expiation, Monstrous, murd'rous parricide?

ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace:

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles:

More remote and buxom-brown

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,

In thy devoted bosom-and the hand

That smote its kindred heart might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?—

He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

REULLURA.'

STAR of the morn and eve,

Reullura shone like thee,

And well for her might Aodh grieve,
The dark-attired Culdee.2

Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees
Were Albyn's earliest priests of God,
Ere yet an island of her seas

By foot of Saxon monk was trode,
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
Were barr'd from holy wedlock's tie,
"T was then that Aodh, famed afar,

In Iona preach'd the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star,

Was the partner of his bower.

But, Aodh, the roof lies low,

And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat fits to and fro

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; And fallen is each column'd aisle

Where the chiefs and the people knelt.
"T was near that temple's goodly pile
That honor'd of men they dwelt.
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law,
And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw

The veil of fate uplifted.
Alas, with what visions of awe

Her soul in that hour was gifted-
When pale in the temple and faint,
With Aodh she stood alone
By the statue of an aged Saint!
Fair sculptured was the stone,
It bore a crucifix;

Fame said it once had graced
A Christian temple, which the Picts
In the Britons' land laid waste:

The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught,
Had hither the holy relic brought.
Reullura eyed the statue's face,

And cried, "It is he shall come,

Even he, in this very place,
To avenge my martyrdom.

"For, woe to the Gael people!

Ulvfagre is on the main,

And Iona shall look from tower and steeple
On the coming ships of the Dane;

1 Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star."

2 The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin; and their monastery, on the island of Iona or Icolmki!l, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons.

And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks
With the spoiler's grasp entwine?
No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks,
And the deep sea shall be mine.
Baffled by me shall the Dane return,
And here shall his torch in the temple burn,
Until that holy man shall plow

The waves from Innisfail.
His sail is on the deep e'en now,

And swells to the southern gale."

“Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,"

The holy Aodh said,

"That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?” "He liveth, he liveth," she said again,

"For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men.

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth; The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him;

And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross look'd dim,

And the graves gave up their dead.

"Yet, preaching from clime to clime,
He hath roam'd the earth for ages,
And hither he shall come in time
When the wrath of the heathen rages,
In time a remnant from the sword-
Ah! but a remnant to deliver;
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord!

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever.
Lochlin,' appall'd, shall put up her steel,
And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel;
Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships,
With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael,
And the Lord will instruct thy lips

To preach in Innisfail."

The sun, now about to set,

Was burning o'er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea. Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip

Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across

From Rona and Uist and Skey, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh.

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

"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.

"T WAS 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 't was 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?"

""T was 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."
"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?"-
"Lady, ro-the gift were cruel,
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

161

"Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?"
"Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee
Were thy ransom paid in gold!"
Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

"Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"
Soon at Rhodes the British lover

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern Bride.

And led each arm to act, each heart to feel
What British valor owes to Britain's weal.
These were his public virtues :-but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name-
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief,
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,
Save in Religion's high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy, relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn." "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!

No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"

His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded
Hussar!

LINES

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY,

Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G.
Campbell, K. C. B. to the memory of her Husband.

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart,
Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part,-
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,—
This stone is rear'd: to public duty true,
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew-
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,

He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,

THE BRAVE ROLAND.1

THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland!--
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand
That he had fall'n in fight;
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allemayne!

For the loss of thine 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→
"T was 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 true-
He could not bid that spot adieu;

It was dear still 'midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighboring 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.

I 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 Rhin, 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.