Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,
Old Outalissi woke his battle-song,

And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts;
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, erelong
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.

Calm, opposite the Christain father rose;
Pale on his venerable brow its rays
Of martyr-light the conflagration throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,

And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle-flash is faster driven
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,

He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,

Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.

Short time is now for gratulating speech:
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began

Thy country's flight yon distant towers to reach,
Looked not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow reiaxed to love? And murmurs ran,
As round and round their willing ranks they drew,
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful on them a placid look she threw,
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu!

Past was the flight and welcome seemed the tower,
That like a giant standard bearer frowned
Defiance on the roving Indian power.
Beneath each bold and promontory mound
With embrazure embossee and armor crowned,
And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin,
Wove like a diadem its tracery round
The lofty summit of that mountain green;

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene.

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe,
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew:
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,
Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambush foeman's eye-his volley speeds,
And Albert, Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds!

And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned;
Yet, while she clasped him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound,
These drops? Oh God! the life-blood is her own:
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown--
"Weep not, O love!" she cries, "to see me bleed;
Thee Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate: for scarce I heed
These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death
indeed!

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none,
In future times-no gentle little one

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
-Thomas Campbell.

Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay; Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou num

ber

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet that—no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before himUnhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far down the long isle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, bewildered, he drops from some cliff huge in

stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, The obsequies sang by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

-Sir Walter Scott.

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy, wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me,

Though long before thy hand they touch

I know that they must withered be,—

But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,

O

WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's
being,

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes; O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver,-hear, O hear!

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtaxed; but she
Did more, and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl who ruled
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought
Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve!"
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone,

His beard a foot before him, and his hair

A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And prayed him, "If they pay this tax, they starve."
Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed,
"You would not let your little finger ache
For such as these?" "But I would die," said she.
He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul:
Then filliped at the diamond in her ear;
"O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Alas!" she said,
'But prove me what it is I would not do."
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand,
He answered, "Ride you naked through the town,
And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn,

He parted, with great strides among his dogs.
So left alone, the passions of her mind.
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth,
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all
The hard condition; but that she would loose
The people; therefore, as they loved her well,
From then till noon no foot should pace the street,
No eye look down, she passing; but that all
Should keep within, door shut and window barred.
.Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath
She lingered, looking like a summer moon
Half dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head,
And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee;
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair
Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar, until she reached
The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt
In purple blazoned with armorial gold.

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity:
The deep air listened round her as she rode,
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.

The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spout
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur
Made her cheeks flame: her palfrey's footfall shot
Light horrors through her pulses: the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she
Not less through all bore up, till, last, she saw
The white-flowered elder-thicket from the field
Gleam through the Gothic archways in the wall.

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity:
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
The fatal byword of all years to come,
Boring a little auger-hole in fear.
Peeped-but his eyes, before they had their will,
Were shriveled into darkness in his head,
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait
On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused;
And she, that knew not, passed: and all at once,
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless

noon

Was clashed and hammered from a hundred towers,
One after one: but even then she gained
Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crowned,
To meet her lord, she took the tax away,
And built herself an everlasting name.

-Alfred Tennyson.

Hung out to dry; And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious

In their straw-built sty. 'T is there the turf is, And lots of murphies,

Dead sprats and herrings,

And oyster-shells;
Nor any lack, O,

Of good tobacco-
Though what is smuggled
By far excels.

There are ships from Cadiz,
And from Barbadoes,
But the leading trade is

In whisky punch;
And you may go in
Where one Mary Bowen
Keeps a nate hotel,