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As love-led he crosses
The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur
Of water and grove

The tones of the night

That are sacred to love.

His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung;
And high waves the feather
That dances and plays
On his cap, where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,
The bright billow break,
And to hear in his boat,

Where he shines like a star,
Her lover so tenderly

Touch his guitar.

She opens her lattice

And sits in the glow

Of the moon-light and star-light,

A statue of snow;

And she sings in a voice

That is broken with sighs,

And she darts on her lover
The light of her eyes.

His love-speaking pantomime
Tells her his soul,-

How wild in the sunny clime
Hearts and eyes roll!

She waves with her white hand
Her white fazzolet,

And her burning thoughts flash
From her eyes' living jet.

The moon-light is hid

In a vapour of snow!
Her voice and his rebeck
Alternately flow:
Re-echoed they swell

From the rock on the hill,
They sing their farewell,

And the music is still.

THE LAST DAY.

In English Sapphics.

WATTS.

WHEN the fierce north-wind with his airy forces,
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;
And the red lightning, like a storm of hail, comes
Rushing amain down;

How the poor sailors stand amaz'd, and tremble! While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters,

Quick to devour them;

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder,
(If things eternal may be like this earthly),
Such the dire terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the creation,

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven;
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes;
See the graves open, and the bones arising,

Flames all around them!

Hark! the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!
Lively, bright horror, and amazing anguish
Stare through their eyelids, while the living worm

lies

Gnawing within them.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart

strings,

And the smart twinges when the eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance Rolling before him.

Hopeless Immortals! how they scream and shiver, While devils push them to the pit wide yawning, Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong Down to the centre.

Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid,
Doleful ideas!)-Come, arise to Jesus,
How he sits godlike! and the saints around him
Thron'd, yet adoring!

O may I sit there, when he comes triumphant,
Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,
While our Hosannas, all along the passage,

Shout the Redeemer!

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glitt'ring host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,—the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my found'ring bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever and for evermore,

The Star! The Star of Bethlehem!

THE DOUBLET OF GREY.

MRS ROBINSON.

BENEATH the tall turrets that nod o'er the dell
A dark forest now blackens the mound;
Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-sounding-bell
Tolls sadly and solemn a soul-parting knell,
While the ruin re-echoes the sound.

Yet long has the castle been left to decay,
For its ramparts are skirted with thorn;
And no one by moon-light will venture that way,
Lest they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of grey,
As she wanders, all pale and forlorn!

"And why should she wander? O tell me, I pray, And, O! why does she wander alone?" Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay,

With no shroud but a coarse simple doublet of grey, Lies her bosom as cold as a stone.

Time was when no form was so fresh, or so fair, Or so comely, when richly array'd:

She was tall; and the jewels that blaz'd in her hair Could no more with her eyes' living lustre compare, Than a rose with the cheek of the maid.

She lov'd!-but the youth who had vanquish'd her

heart

Was the heir of a peasant's hard toil;

For no treasure had he,-yet a stranger to art,
He would oft by a look to the damsel impart
What the damsel receiv'd with a smile.

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