GONDOLINE:

A BALLAD.

THE night it was still, and the moon it shone
Serenely on the sea,

And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock
They murmured pleasantly.

When Gondoline roamed along the shore,
A maiden full fair to the sight,

Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,
And turned it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear
It filled her faint blue eye,
As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,
Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth
Of all our good king's men,
And he was gone to the Holy Land
To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had passed away,
And many a rolling year,
But nothing the maid from Palestine
Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce
The ocean's misty face;

Full oft she thought her lover's bark
She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light
In the high rock's lonely tower,
To guide her lover to the land,

Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair had seized her breast,
And sunken in her eye;

"Oh, tell me but if Bertrand live,
And I in peace will die."

She wandered o'er the lonely shore,

The curlew screamed above

She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Much boding of her love.

Yet still she kept her lonely way,

And this was all her cry,
"Oh, tell me but if Bertrand live,
And I in peace shall die."

And now she came to a horrible rift,
All in the rock's hard side,
A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread
The cavern yawning wide.

And pendent from its dismal top
The deadly nightshade hung;
The hemlock and the aconite

Across the mouth were flung.

And all within was dark and drear,
And all without was calm;
Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld
By some deep-working charm.

And as she entered the cavern wide,
The moonbeam gleamëd pale,

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock,
It clung by its slimy tail.

Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, She trod on a bloated toad;

Yet, still upheld by the secret charm.

She kept upon her road.

And now upon her frozen ear
Mysterious sounds arose ;
So, on the mountain's piny top,

The blustering north wind blows.
Then furious peals of laughter loud
Were heard with thundering sound,
Till they died away in soft decay,
Low whispering o'er the ground.

Yet still the maiden onward went,
The charm yet onward led,
Though each big glaring ball of sight
Seemed bursting from her head.

But now a pale blue light she saw,
It from a distance came;
She followed, till upon her sight
Burst full a flood of flame.

She stood appalled; yet still the charm
Upheld her sinking soul;

Yet each bent knee the other smote,
And each wild eye did roll.

And such a sight as she saw there,
No mortal saw before,

And such a sight as she saw there,
No mortal shall see more.

A burning cauldron stood in the midst,
The flame was fierce and high,
And all the cave, so wide and long,
Was plainly seen thereby.

And round about the cauldron stout
Twelve withered witches stood;
Their waists were bound with living snakes,
And their hair was stiff with blood.

Their hands were gory too, and red
And fiercely flamed their eyes;

And they were muttering indistinct
Their hellish mysteries.

And suddenly they joined their hands,
And uttered a joyous cry,

And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

And now they stopped; and each prepared
To tell what she had done
Since last the lady of the night
Her waning course had run.

Behind a rock stood Gondoline,
Thick weeds her face did veil,
And she leaned fearful forwarder,
To hear the dreadful tale.

She said there was a little bark

Upon the roaring wave,

And there was a woman there, who had been
To see her husband's grave.

And she had got a child in her arms,

It was her only child,

And oft its little infant pranks

Her heavy heart beguiled.

And there was too, in that same bark,

A father and his son;
The lad was sickly, and the sire
Was old and woe-begone.

And when the tempest waxed strong,
And the bark could no more it bide,
She said it was jovial fun to hear

How the poor devils cried!

The mother clasped her orphan child
Unto her breast and wept;
And, sweetly folded in her arms,
The careless baby slept.

And she told how, in the shape of the wind,
As manfully it roared,

She twisted her hand in the infant's hair,
And threw it overboard.

And to have seen the mother's pangs,
"Twas a glorious sight to see;

The crew could scarcely hold her down
From jumping in the sea.

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand,
And it was soft and fair:

It must have been a lovely child,
To have had such lovely hair.

And she said, the father in his arms
He held his sickly son,

And his dying throes they fast arose,
His pains were nearly done.

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy
And his face grew deadly blue;
[hands,

And the father he tore his thin grey hair,
And kissed the livid hue.

And then she told, how she bored a hole
In the bark, and it filled away;

And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear,
And some did vow and pray.

The man and woman they soon were dead,
The sailors their strength did urge,

But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet,
And the winds sung their funeral dirge.

She threw the infant's hair in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,

And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The second begun: she said she had done
The task that Queen Hecate had set her,
And that the devil, the father of evil,
Had never accomplished a better.

She said, there was an aged woman,
And she had a daughter fair,
Whose evil habits filled her heart
With misery and care.

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 am 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 screamed aloud 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 flamed high,

And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The third arose: she said she had 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.

LINES

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye. Mary, awake;
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft and low
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whispered tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart. Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night wind howled,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night. O then, as lone reclining,
I listened sadly to the dismal storm,

Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye: dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely. Thou didst smile upon me,
And O! thy voice it rose so musical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charmed,
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Locked in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her! My only love! O, now again arise, And let once more thine airy accents fall Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely On the still air, the distant waterfall [swelling Mingles its melody; and high above, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll Dare now assemble at their mystic revels; It is a night, when from their primrose beds The gentle ghosts of injured innocents Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. The spirit of my love might now awake, And hold its customed converse.

Mary, lo!

Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him,
In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale ;
The worm that preyed upon thy youthful bloom,
It cankered green on his. Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death!

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 unfold

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,
Wrapped 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 the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,"
In varied harmonies: the glorious sounds
Roll o'er the air serene. The' Æolian spheres,
Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great,"
Responding to the seraphim. O'er all,
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of him.

O! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
O! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou the dread author of these wondrous works!
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence ?-Thou canst
For thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour!

O! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,

The gauds, and honours of the world appear!
How vain, ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatched the slow-paced night ?-Why on the
page,

The schoolman's laboured page, have I employed
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay
The loss of health ?-Or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?-
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs

Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God,
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

MY STUDY:

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.

You bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies, con amore,
And wanton with the Muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,

With white-washed walls and plaster floor,
So nobly large, 'tis scarcely able
To' admit a single chair and table:
And (lest the Muse should die with cold)
A smoky grate my fire to hold;

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose
To melt the icedrop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er
Full half the spacious room and more.

A window, vainly stuffed about

To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,

That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack—
A broken chair without a back;
A table wanting just two legs,
One end sustained by wooden pegs ;
A desk-of that I am not fervent,
The work of, sir, your humble servant
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler);
A glass decanter and a tumbler,
From which my night-parched throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave:

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And sawed by me in all directions;

So small, sir, that whoever views 'em

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.

To these, if you will add a store

Of oddities upon the floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog!
You'll have my earthly catalogue.

But stay, I nearly had left out
My bellows, destitute of snout;
And on the walls, good Heavens ! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
And organ works, and broken pedals

(For I was once a-building music,

Though soon of that employ I grew sick);
And skeletons of law, which shoot

All out of one primordial root;
That you, at such a sight would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.

There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,

A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it aught of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,

Because they both have beards, which, you know,
Will mark them well from Joan and Juno,)
For some great man, I could not tell
But Neck might answer just as well,
So perched it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground;
For though confined, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain:
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,
No more may Heaven her blessings give-
I shall not then be fit to live.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.

Down the sultry arc of day

The burning wheels have urged their way;
And eve along the western skies
Sheds her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain ;
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft with his accumstomed call,
Urging on the sluggish ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thrasher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheepcote fast,
For, 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries;
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans:
In the hovel carts are wheeled,

And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup:

The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet;
And Bess has slinked away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.

Now, on the settle all but Bess
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow-gate.
Now they chat on various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrained for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky,
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the ale-house drunken Ned
Has reeled-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing-coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And naught from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

A BALLAD.

BE hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds;
Ye pelting rains, a little rest;

Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast!

Oh, cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid;
Oh, cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betrayed!
When exiled from my native home,
He should have wiped the bitter tear;
Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick weary wanderer here.
My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah, little knows the hapless babe
What makes its wretched mother weep!
Now lie thee still, my infant dear;
I cannot bear thy sobs to see;
Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,

And winds were piping o'er me loud; And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ., R. A., ON SEEING
ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS.

MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow,
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light
That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;