JASPER,

By Mrs. ROBINSON.

The night was long, 'twas Winter time
The moon shone pale and clearly;
The woods were bare, the nipping air
Across the heath, as cold as death,
Blew shrilly, and severely.

And awful was the midnight scene
The silent river flowing;

The dappled sky, the screech-owl's cry,
The black'ning tower, the haunted bower,
Where pois'nous weeds were growing.

An iron window in the tower,

Slow creek'd as it was swinging; And a gibbet stood, beside the wood, And the blast did blow it, to and fro,

And the rusty chains were ringing!

With footsteps quick, and feverish heat,
One tatter'd garment wearing,

Poor Jasper, sad, alone, and MAD!
Now chanted wild and now he smiled,
With eyes wide-fixed and glaring.

His cheek was wan, his lip was blue,
His head was bare and shaggy;
His limbs were torn, with many a thorn,
For he had paced the pathless waste,

And climb'd the steep-rock craggy.

His voice was hollow as the tone

Of cavern'd winds, and mournful; No tears could flow to calm his woe, Yet, on his face, sate manly grace,

And grief, sublimely scornful!

Twelve freezing nights poor Jasper's breast
Had brav'd the tempests' yelling;

For misery keen his lot had been
Since he had left, of sense bereft,

His tyrant Father's dwelling.

That Father, who, with Lordly pride
Saw him from Mary sever;

Saw her pale cheek in silence speak,
Her eye's blue light, so heavenly bright!
Grow dim and fade for ever!

"How hot yon Sun begins to shine !"
The Maniac cried, loud laughing.
"I feel the pain that burns my brain,
Thy sulphur beam, bids ocean steam,
Where all the Fiends are quaffing

Soft, soft, the dew begins to rise,
I'll drink it while 'tis flowing :
Down every tree the bright rills see,
Quick let me sip, they'll cool my lip,
For now my blood is glowing.

Hark! 'tis the She-Wolf howling by!
Poor Jasper smiles to hear thee!

For he can hide by the hedge-row's side,

While storms shall sweep the mountain's steep Then She-Wolf, can he fear thee?

Pale Moon! thou Spectre of the Sky!
I see thy white shroud waving:
And now, behold thy bosom cold-
Oh! Memory sad! it made me mad!
Then wherefore mock my raving?

Yes; on my Mary's bosom cold
Death laid his bony fingers!
Hark! how the wave begins to lave
The rocky shore, I hear it roar !
The whistling Pilot lingers.

Oh! bear me, bear me o'er the main,
See the white sails are flying;
Yon glittering Star shall be my car,
And by my side, shall Mary glide,

Mild as the South-wind, sighing!

My bare-foot

way is mark'd with blood, Well! what care I for sorrow?

The Sun shall rise to chear the skies,

The wintry day shall pass away,

And summer smile, to morrow!

The frosted heath is wide and drear,
And rugged is my pillow;

Soon shall I sleep, beneath the deep,
How calm to me, that sleep will be
Rock'd by the bounding billow.

The village clock strikes mournfully,
It is my death-bell tolling!

But, though yon cloud begins to shroud
The gliding moon,—the day stream soon
Shall down yon steep come rolling.

Roll down yon steep, broad flood of light;
Drive hence that Spectre !-Jasper
Remembers now her snowy brow,
'Tis Mary! see! she beckons me—
Oh! let me, let me clasp her!

She fades away, I feel her not!

She's gone, 'tis dark and dreary : The drizzling rain now chills my brain, The bell for me rings mournfully

Come Death! for I am weary.