"O God! Lord William, dost thou know

How dreadful 't is to die?

And canst thou without pity hear
A child's expiring cry?

"How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the closing stream,
To stretch the powerless arms in vain,
In vain for help to scream!"

The shriek again was heard: it came
More deep, more piercing loud;
That instant o'er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud;

And near them they beheld a child;
Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approach'd his resting-place;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,

And show'd how pale his face.

"Now reach thine hand!" the boatman cried,

"Lord William, reach and save!"

The child stretch'd forth his little hands

To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shriek'd; the hands he felt
Were cold and damp and dead!
He held young Edmund in his arms
A heavier weight than lead.

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;

He rose, he shriek'd, no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream.

Westbury, 1798.

ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY.

THIS Ballad was published (1801) in the Tales of Wonder, by Mr. Lewis, who found it among the wefts and strays of the Press. He never knew that it was mine; but after his death I bestowed some pains in recomposing it, because he had thought worth preserving.

It is founded upon the abridged extract which M. le Grand has given in his Fabliaux of a Metrical legend, by Marie de France.

1.

"ENTER, Sir Knight," the Warden cried,
"And trust in Heaven whate'er betide,
Since you have reach'd this bourn;

But first receive refreshment due,
'T will then be time to welcome you
If ever you return."

2.

Three sops were brought of bread and wine;

Well might Sir Owen then divine

The mystic warning given,

That he against our ghostly Foe
Must soon to mortal combat go,

And put his trust in Heaven.

3.

Sir Owen pass'd the convent gate,
The Warden him conducted straight
To where a coffin lay;

The Monks around in silence stand,
Each with a funeral torch in hand
Whose light bedimm'd the day.

4.

"Few Pilgrims ever reach this bourn,' They said, "but fewer still return; Yet, let what will ensue,

Our duties are prescribed and clear;
Put off all mortal weakness here,
This coffin is for you.

5.

"Lie there, while we with pious breath

Raise over you the dirge of death,

This comfort we can give; Belike no living hands may pay This office to your lifeless clay, Receive it while you live !"

6.

Sir Owen in a shroud was drest,
They placed a cross upon his breast,
And down he laid his head;
Around him stood the funeral train,
And sung with slow and solemn strain
The Service of the Dead.

7.

Then to the entrance of the Cave

They led the Christian warrior brave;
Some fear he well might feel,

For none of all the Monks could tell
The terrors of that mystic cell,

Its secrets none reveal.

8.

"Now enter here," the Warden cried, "And God, Sir Owen, be your guide! Your name shall live in story: For of the few who reach this shore, Still fewer venture to explore St. Patrick's Purgatory."

9.

Adown the Cavern's long descent,
Feeling his way Sir Owen went,

With cautious feet and slow
Unarm'd, for neither sword nor spear,
Nor shield of proof avail'd him here
Against our ghostly Foe.

10.

The ground was moist beneath his tread, Large drops fell heavy on his head,

The air was damp and chill,

And sudden shudderings o'er him came, And he could feel through all his frame An icy sharpness thrill.