As the Squireen, who counted the moments that flew, Cried, "Quick, fellow, quick, for my horse a shoe!" But Phaidrig's glances the fiercer grew,

While the fugitive knew not the wreck of that frame, So handsome once in its youthful fame,

That frame he had crush'd with a convict's chain, That fame he had tarnish'd with felon stain. "And so you forget me?" the Blacksmith cried. The voice rolled backward the chilling tide Of the curdling blood on the villain's heart, And he heard the sound with a fearful start; But, with the strong nerve of the bad and the bold, He rallied and pull'd out a purse of gold, And said, "Of the past it is vain to tell, Shoe me my horse, and I'll pay you well,"

"Work for you?-no, never!-unless belike To rivet your fetters this hand might strike, Or to drive a nail in your gallows-tree

66

That's the only work you shall have from me

When you swing, I'll be loud in the crowd shall hoot you." Silence, you dog-or, by Heaven, I'll shoot you!"

And a pistol he drew-but the startled child

Rushed in between, with an outcry wild,
"Don't shoot-don't shoot! oh, master sweet!
The iron is now in the fire to heat,

'Twill soon be ready, the horse shall be shod."
The Squireen returned but a curse and a nod,
Nor knew that the base-born child before him
Was his own that a ruined woman bore him;
And the gun-barrel, too, in that glowing fire,
Was his own-one of those he had hid to conspire
'Gainst the Blacksmith's life; but Heaven decreed
His own should result from the darksome deed,
For the barrel grows red-the charge ignites-
Explodes !-and the guilty Squireen bites
The dust where he falls. Oh, judgment dread?
His own traitor weapon the death-shot sped,
By his own child it was found, and laid

In the wrong'd one's fire-the gathering shade

Of his doom was completed.-Fate's shadows had spread
Like a thunder-cloud o'er his guilty head,

And the thunder burst, and the lightning fell,
Where his dark deeds were done, in the mountain dell.

The pursuit was fast on the hunted Squireen;

The reeking horse at the forge is seen

There's a shout on the hill, there's a rush down the glen,
And the forge is crowded with armèd men ;
With dying breath, the victim allowed

The truth of the startling tale

The Blacksmith told to the greedy crowd,
Who for gold had track'd the trail.
Vain golden hope-vain speed was there;
The game lay low in his crimson lair;

To the vengeance of earth no victim was giv'n,
'Twas claim'd by the higher tribunal of Heaven!

A DEW-DROP, once,
In a summer's night,

Was touched by the wand
Of a faithless sprite,

As the moon in her change,
Shot a trembling ray
Down the bosky dell

Where the dew-drop lay;

And tainted with change
By the wild-wood sprite,
Was the dew-drop, till then
So pure and so bright.

For what might be pure,

If 'twere not the dew?

A gift from the skies

Earth's sweets to renew.

What may be bright
As the dew-drops are ?
Kindred are they

To the evening star.

Blest is the dew

When the day's begun,

It flies to the kiss

Of the godlike sun.

Blest is the dew

At the evening hour,

Taking its rest

In some grateful flower,

That gives forth its odour,
To welcome the fall

Of the dew-drop that sinks
In the balmy thrall.

Enfolded in fragrance,
Entranc'd it lies,

Till the morning's dawn,
When it lightly flies

From the balmy lips

Of the waking flower,

Which droops through the day, When the dew-drop's away, And mourns the delay

Of the evening hour.

O, how the sprite-struck
Dew-drop stray'd

'Mong the wildest flow'rs

Of the wild-wood glade!

Toying with all,

She was constant to none;

Though she held her faith

To the lordly sun.

She sought a new couch
As the eve grew dim,

But at morning she ever
Returned to him.

The fond rose pined

In its hidden heart

While the dew-drop play'd
Her changeful part.

And though it was kiss'd
By some dew-drop bright,
Griev'd that it was not

The one of last night.

The leaf-shelter'd lily,

Pale "flow'r of the vale,"

The love-plaint felt

Of the nightingale ;

Whose song never bore

So much meaning as now :

O sympathy!-subtle

In teaching art thou.

The violet (heart-like),
The sweeter for grief,

Sigh'd forth its balm

In its own relief;

While its jealous companions
Conceiv'd it blest,

And envied the pang
Of an aching breast.

Thus, eve after eve,

Did the dew-drop betray

Some leaflet that smiled

On the pendant spray ;

And blossoms that sprang
From a healthful root,

Faded in grief,

And produced no fruit.

But what cared she?

Who was always caress'd,

As she sank in delight

On some fresh flower's breast.

Though it died the next night,
She could pass it, and say,

"Poor thing-'twas my love
Of yesterday."

At last, in her pride,

She so faithless got,

She even forsook

The forget-me-not.