The daughter had a paramour,

A wicked man was he,

And oft the woman, him against,
Did murmur grievously.

And the hag had worked the daughter up
To murder her old mother,

That then she might seize on all her goods,
And wanton with her lover.

And one night, as the old woman
Was sick and ill in bed,
And pondering sorely on the life
Her wicked daughter led,

She heard her footstep on the floor,
And she raised her pallid head,
And she saw her daughter, with a knife,
Approaching to her bed;

And said, "My child, I'm very ill,
I have not long to live;
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die
Thy sins I may forgive."

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek,
And she lifted the sharp, bright knife,
And the mother saw her fell intent,
And hard she begged for life.

But prayers would nothing her avail,

And she screaméd loud with fear;

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams Could reach no human ear.

And though that she was sick, and old,
She struggled hard, and fought;
The murderess cut three fingers through
Ere she could reach her throat.

And the hag she held the fingers up,
The skin was mangled sore,
And they all agreed a nobler deed
Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire,
The red flame flaméd high,
And round about the caldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The third arose: she said she'd been
To holy Palestine;

And seen more blood in one short day,
Than they had all seen in nine.

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,
Drew nearer to the flame,
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.

The hag related then the sports
Of that eventful day,
When on the well-contested field
Full fifteen thousand lay.

She said, that she in human gore
Above the knees did wade,

And that no tongue could truly tell

The tricks she there had played.

There was a gallant-featured youth,
Who like a hero fought:

He kissed a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.

And in a vassal's garb disguised
Unto the knight she sues,

And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.

That three days ere she had embarked, His love had given her hand

Unto a wealthy Thane:-and thought Him dead in holy land.

And to have seen how he did writhe
When this her tale she told,
It would have made a wizard's blood
Within his heart run cold.

Then fierce he spurred his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed:

And soon all mangled o'er with wounds. He on the cold turf bled.

And from his smoking corse, she tore
His head, half clove in two,
She ceased, and from beneath her garb,
The bloody trophy drew.

The eyes were starting from their socks, The mouth it ghastly grinned,

And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinned.

'Twas BERTRAND'S HEAD. With a terrible scream,

The maiden gave a spring,

And from her fearful hiding-place

She fell into the ring.

The lights they fled,-the caldron sunk,

Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom.

Insensible the maiden lay

Upon the hellish ground:

And still mysterious sounds were heard
At intervals around.

She woke, she half arose,-and wild,
She cast a horrid glare,

The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled,
And all was stillness there.

And through an awning in the rock,
The moon it sweetly shone,
And showed a river in the cave,
Which dismally did moan.

The stream was black, it sounded deep
As it rushed the rocks between,
It offered well, for madness fired
The breast of Gondoline.

She plunged in, the torrent moaned
With its accustomed sound,
And hollow peals of laughter loud,
Again rebellowed round.

The maid was seen no more.—But oft
Her ghost is known to glide,
At midnight's silent, solemn hour,
Along the ocean's side.

LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS,

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.

YE many-twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems!-big as the burning sun,
Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye,
Small as the glow-worm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while all bewildered,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless, for our narrow mind,
Warped with low prejudices, to infold,

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to Him!
The mighty founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime.
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.

The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, Hymn to their golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds