She mounted, and she turned his head
Towards her native land.

16. Out-out into the darkness

Faster and still more fast;
The smooth grass flies behind her,
The chestnut wood is past:
She looks up; clouds are heavy!
Why is her steed so slow?
Scarcely the wind beside them
Can pass them as they go.

17. "Faster," she cries; "O faster!"
Eleven the church-bells chime;

"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,
And bring me there in time !"
But louder than bells' ringing,
Or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight
The rushing of the Rhine.

18. Shall not the roaring waters

Their headlong gallop check?
The steed draws back in terror;
She leans upon his neck
To watch the flowing darkness:
The bank is high and steep;
One pause, he staggers forward,
And plunges in the deep.

19. She strives to pierce the blackness,
And looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters
That dash above his mane.

How gallantly, how nobly,

He struggles through the foam!

And see, in the far distance

Shine out the lights of home!

20. Up the steep banks he bears her,
And now they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz,
That tower above the plain.
They reach the gate of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier
To meet the news she brings.

21. Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
Her battlements are manued:
Defiance greets the army

That marches on the land;
And if to deeds heroic

Should endless fame be paid,
Bregenz does well to honor

The noble Tyrol maid.

22. Three hundred years are vanished,
And yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises

To do her honor still.

And there, when Bregenz women

Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving
The charger and the maid.

23. And when to guard old Bregenz,
By gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long,
And calls each passing hour :
"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,
And then (0 crown of Fame !)
When midnight pauses in the skies,
He calls the maiden's name!

MISS A. A. PROCTOR

B

78. THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.-(FROM "LALLA ROOKH.")
UT see-he starts-what heard he then?
That dreadful shout!-across the glen
From the land side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd.
Of fearful things that haunt that dell,
Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!

66

They come-the Moslems come !"—he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes :-
"Now, spirits of the brave, who roam
Enfranchised through yon starry dome,
Rejoice for souls of kindred fire
Are on the wing to join your choir !"
He said-and, light as bridegrooms bound
To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep
And gain'd the shrine-his chiefs stood round-
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accurst,

Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!-again-again it rings;

Near and more near its echoings

Peal through the chasm. Oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasped, their eyes of flame
Turn'd on their chief-could doubt the shame,
Th indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts, and yet stand still?

2. He read their thoughts-they were his own-
"What! while our arms can wield these blades,
Shall we die tamely-die alone?

Without one victim to our shades, One Moslem heart where, buried deep, The sabre from its toil may sleep?

No-God of Iran's burning skies!
Thou scorn'st th' inglorious sacrifice.
No-though of all earth's hope bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves
Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Till tyrants shudder when their slaves
Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen.
Follow, brave hearts!-this pile remains
Our refuge still from life and chains;
But his the best, the holiest bed,
Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead!"

MOORE

"0

79. THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.

COME! my mother, come away, across the sea-green water;

O! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy

daughter;

O come with us, and come with them, the sister and the

brother,

Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees, and call thy daughtermother.

"O! come, and leave this land of death-this isle of desolation

This speck upon the sun-bright face of God's sublime creation, Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath r ́sen, When Labor seeks the Poorhouse, and Innocence the Prison.

"Tis true o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending;

'Tis true God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; "Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger,

But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger.

"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever

Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver; Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him,

When freshness fanned the Summer air, and cooled the glow of Autumn.

"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear, to God's wise dispen sations;

We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.

"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh

No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectationNaught but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation.

"So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; Forgetting naught of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living.

'They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story How once its Emerald Flag flung out a Sunburst's fleeting glory; O! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising Stars of Heaven commingle to replace it.

"So, come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water;