They have lighted the islands with Ruin's torch,
And the holy men of lona's church
In the temple of God lay slain;

All but Aodh, the last Culdee,
But bound with many an iron chain,
Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh's bride?
Rocks of the ocean flood!

Plunged she not from your heights in pride,
And mock'd the men of blood?

Then Ulvfagre and his bands

In the temple lighted their banquet up, And the print of their blood-red hands

Was left on the altar-cup.

'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said,
"Tell where thy church's treasure's laid,
"Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three,

And every torch grew dim

That lighted their revelry.

But the torches again burnt bright,
And brighter than before,
When an aged man of majestic height
Enter'd the temple door.

Hush'd was the revellers' sound,

They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound Of his footstep's measured tread,

Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on Mis shoulder,

And stretching his arms-as eath

Unriveted Aodh's bands

As if the gyves had been a wreath
Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude
To the ancient statue's form;
The Saint before his own image stood,
And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver
Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver
They lifted the spear and sword,
And levell'd their spears in rows.

But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crozier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,
And though Ulvfagre will'd it not,
He came and stood at the statue's foot,
Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,
And the tottering image was dash'd
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crush'd, as millstone crushes the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,
And the pauses amidst his speech
Were as awful as the sound:

"Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, "And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died
That slaughter'd the flock of God.
Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood
The fragments of that avenging stone
That drank his Heathen blood.
These are the spoils from Iona's sack,
The only spoils ye shall carry back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear and sword
Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,
And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gael,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky,
For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand,
And look'd on them silently;

Save from their hiding-places came
Orphans and mothers, child and dame:

But alas! when the search for Reullura spread,
No answering voice was given,

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,
And her spirit was in heaven.

THE TURKISH LADY.

"T WAS the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly
Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose:
Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 't was from an Emir's palace
Came an eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell,
Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"

""T was on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war-

"In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade."

"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?"-
"Lady, no!-the gift were cruel,
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

"Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee Christian climes should we behold?" "Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in gold!"

尊

Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

"Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasp'd his blooming Eastern Bride.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er"Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover?

Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

"What voice did I hear? 't was my Henry that sigh'd!"

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she

far,

When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent

was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar!

And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war!