Poems

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by

MISS D. P. CAMPBELL,

OF

The Spirits of the Hill

To him in early youth were giv'n, To soothe the many cares of life, Two sons, dear objects of his love; A daughter, gentle as the dove; A fond industrious wife.

But, ah! tempestuous was the night When on the distant stormy wave, His sons, within their little bark, Were driv'n amid the tempest dark, And found a wat'ry grave.

"Thy will, O Heav'nly Pow'r! be doune;" The suffering father cried. But, ah! beneath the killing stroke, His faithful Jenny's heart was broke,— She sicken'd, droop'd, and died.

Oh! who shall paint the husband's woe, Or who the father's anguish tell! Now one dear pledge alone remain'd, And still on earth his heart detain'd— His ever lovely Belle.

She, milder than the breath of eve, When the blue billows gently play; And fairer than the Nereids bright That dance upon the sands at night To Cynthia's silver ray:

To soothe his heart, to cheer his woes, With tender love and filial care, Her pious efforts yet were giv'n: For him she lives, for him to Heav'n She breathes the fervent pray'r.

And neat his little cabin seem'd, Deck'd by the lovely maiden's hand; And still as age came stealing on, His fading eye with pleasure shone, Nor felt its with'ring hand.

One early morn the verdant grass Glitt'ring with many a dew-drop lay; The sun just rising from the wave, To nature all his radiance gave, And chac'd dun night away:

'When from the deep and sound repose That Labour's wearied sons enjoy, The aged Richard rais'd his head, And rising from his peaceful bed, Breath'd the pure air with joy.

"Where is my Isabelle?" he cried; "Oh! dearest daughter, hither haste! Oh! come, my child, for now to Heav'n Our orisons should first be giv'n; The wonted hour is past.

"Oh! come, my child, thy guiltless hands With me in warm devotion raise; With me for mercies past rejoice; And let again thy softer voice Resound thy Maker's praise."

Slow, slow, the anxious morning past, Nor yet the gentle maid was seen; Trembling he search'd each fav'rite spot, And ask'd at ev'ry neighb'ring cot If there his child had been?

No one had seen the gentle maid; And fruitless ev'ry effort prov'd To stop his unavailing tears, To still his bosom's anxious fears, And find the child he lov'd.

Now sober eve, in mantle grey, Veil'd ev'ry scene in twilight's gloom; When, all his weary wand'rings vain, He sought his lonely home again; Mourning his hapless doom.

How chang'd, alas!—no daughter's care To smooth the restless couch of age; No pious child's endearing smile, The woe-worn father to beguile, And all his griefs assuage.

Now night, with her attendant stars, Her drowsy empire 'gan to keep; Waving her wand o'er Burray's Isle, She woo'd the sons of want and toil To sweet repose and sleep.

And all were sunk in balmy rest, When by his peat-fire's dying gleam The sighing Richard mourning sat, Revolving o'er his fearful fate, Renouncing hope's wild dream!

By fits the trembling light was cast Around on objects faintly seen, When soft unlatch'd the cottage door, And lighter footsteps press'd the floor, Than earthly steps, I ween.

Advancing, thus the Spirit said:— "Old man! let grief no more annoy; Pale victim of despair, arise, And dry the tears that dim thine eyes; Arise to life and joy!

Thy daughter, by our Bokian king, Is to his splendid court convey'd; That stands, unseen by mortal eyes, Where yon dark cliffs majestic rise Our monarch loves the maid.

But vain is ev'ry magic spell, To win th' obdurate fair-one's heart; But come, and urge her to relent;— Cheer'd by thy presence and consent, She'll act a kinder part.

Oh! come, and all thy life shall be With us a summer's day of joy; A thousand Spirits of.our hill Shall wait obedient on thy will, And all their arts employ.

Our greatest chieftain thou shalt be; Our empress shall thy daughter reign; Thy willing soul to me consign, The King of Heav'n at once resign, Nor dread his threaten'd pain."

"No—fiend of darkness! hence away; My soul abhors thy king and thee: Though robb'd of her, my age's hope, With thee my spirit yet shall cope, And wait Heav'n's just decree.

Celestial angels shall descend From yon high vault, on orient wing, And waft my child to realms of joy, Where thy curst arts shall ne'er annoy: Where blooms perpetual spring!"

"Curse on thy dreams of heav'n and bliss, Old dotard, with the locks of grey!"— Then, while the rising tempests blow, The spirit, mutt'ring vengeance low, Flew on the winds away.

When night again her ebon wand Wav'd over nature's wide domain, While deep her murky shadow low'rs, The Bokian monarch call'd his pow'rs, And thus address'd the train:—

"Shall we, oh chieftains! far renown'd, And known on many a distant hill, Be thus out-brav'd by vulgar swain? How my breast swelling with disdain, Dark thoughts of vengeance fill!

Go, quick your elfin shafts prepare, His cow, his sheep, his dogs to slay; Destroy each comfort of his age: And this, the mandate of my rage, Be done ere dawns the day.

The maid, in stony fetters bound, By magic arts shall here remain,— My love to deadly hate doth turn: Here long confin'd, she'll deeply mourn Her obstinate disdain."

He spoke, and lowly to the ground His abject slaves submissive bend:— "Great monarch, thou shalt be obey'd!"— When quick, each flutt'ring wing display'd, The airy sprites ascend.

To where fair Isabelle forlorn, Her pale cheeks bath'd in sorrow's dew, Sat in a cave, where jewels bright, And glow-worms shed their mingled light, The Bokian monarch flew.

"Oh, peerless beauty! why thus drench In such a silv'ry show'r of care, Thy starry eyes, so heav'nly bright?— No twinklers in the vault of night May boast a beam so fair!

Match'd with thy cheeks' celestial bloom, The brilliant conch's gay tints must fail; Thy golden locks delight the view, Thy lips are of the coral's hue, Thy breath like Arab's gale.

Oh! dry these tears, and sweetly smile, Nor grieve me thus with proud disdain;— Oh, lovely mortal! share my throne, My heart, my realms, are all thine own; Their empress thou shalt reign!"

"Thy queen! base tyrant! know this heart Will sooner ev'ry torture bear! Hence! for thy flatt'ry ne'er can move; Nor with thy base, detested love, Again pollute mine ear!"

"Ha!—tremble then to dare my rage, And turn my love to deadly hate; In burning torturing chains confin'd, Here thou remain'st!—but, yet be kind, Nor rashly tempt thy fate."

"Proud tyrant! all thy magic charms, And hellish witchery combin'd, Shall never bring th' immortal soul Beneath thy curs'd and dark controul, Nor chain the unfetter'd mind."

Madden'd with rage, the tyrant king Summon'd his hideous cruel train; And to a cavern's dismal shade They fiercely drag the trembling maid, And leave her to complain.

While there she pines, in darkness pent, And weeps her melancholy doom, To Richard's dreary cot of care, The Bokians swiftly cleave the air, Veil'd in night's murky gloom.

And fatal night that night had been, To all poor Richard's hard-earn'd store; But virtue's ready guardians still, The green-rob'd fairies of the hill, Watch'd at his lowly door.

'Twas their's, wherever sorrow wept, To come unseen and wipe the tear; Or by the mountain's dang'rous side The midnight traversal's steps to guide, And sinking soul to cheer.

Oft on the wand'ring peasant's ear, When passing by some haunted hill, Such soothing melody has stole, As did his rude untutor'd soul With heav'nly visions fill.

Or, when by wicked demons led Far o'er the desert heath astray, Quick burst upon his startled sight Their little forms so heav'nly bright, And shew'd the safer way.

And now, round Richard's humble home Their glitt'ring ranks embattled stood; And march'd with firm undaunted mien, As slowly on the dewy green, Descends th' infernal brood.

"Stop, stop!" they shout, with one accord; "Bokians! your wicked work forbear; Swift to your cruel, bloody king, Again ascend on hasty wing, Or dread to meet us here!"

"What! here again, our ancient foes!" Their sable chieftain, Obin, cried; "How dare ye still to thwart our way, And rob us of our lawful prey?— Your vengeance is defied!"

Sudden, with wild, determin'd air, Each warrior grasp'd his well-tried bow; And while their deadly arrows fly, Mad frenzy lights each gleaming eye, And scowls on ev'ry brow.

The frighted Nereids drop their shells, Rush to their sea-caves, shrieking loud, And tremble in their native streams, While Cynthia veils her sick'ning beams Behind a sable cloud.

And wilder still the battle rag'd;— The burn ran red with Fairy gore, And many a gasping Bokian lay, The life-blood ebbing fast away, Upon that fatal shore.

But soon the shouts of vict'ry rise; Vain is the vanquish'd Bokian's grief, For Richard's guardian friends succeed; Dismay'd the routed squadrons bleed, And captive is their chief!

"In magic chains our pris'ners bind!" The Fairy-leader shouted bold; "Some warriors now on swiftest wing, Fly instant to the Bokian king, And thus our will be told:

Tell him, not one of all his train, Not Obin's self, that fiend ador'd, He e'er again must hope to see, Till the fair Isabelle is free, And to her sire restor'd."

Soon to the Bokian court they flew, On flutt'ring pinions light convey'd: The proud king curs'd the hard decree, Yet glad to set his vassals free, Releas'd the captive maid,

Ob! how her gentle bosom throbb'd, As pois'd in air she quickly flew, And reach'd once more her native cot;— But, ah! upon the bloody spot, What horrors met her view!

"Start not, sweet maid!" the conqueror cried, "In virtue's cause we bleed with joy; Nor fear again the Bokian pow'r Shall reach thee in an evil hour, And all our work destroy.

Go, seek thy sorrowing aged sire; Be peace and happiness your lot! Be virtuous thus and pious still, The green-rob'd Fairies of the hill Shall guard thy lowly cot.

Aurora now with rosy hands, Unlocks the golden gates of morn, And we to hail our king must fly To courts unseen by mortal eye, On downy pinions borne."

He ceas'd, and quickly from her sight They vanish'd like a passing dream; No more was seen the bloody stain, The dew-drop sparkled on the plain, Unsullied flow'd the stream.

Now blue-ey'd peace, and rose-lip'd joy, Again on Richard's cottage smil'd; Yet oft he shook his silv'ry head, And told with fear and solemn dread, The story of his child.

With grateful heart he knelt to Heav'n, Nor night nor morn his praises cease; And, many a happy year gone by, Poor Richard breath'd his latest sigh, And clos'd his days, in peace.

Retribution; or, the Hall of St. Garvin

"Come, gentle stranger, rest with me, If sorrow's tale thine ear beguile, And on this streamlet's grassy bank Repose thy weary limbs awhile.

I'll tell thee why the maidens weep Distracted o'er that sable bier; I'll tell thee why the shepherds sigh, And why the aged drop the tear.—

Behold amid yon distant hills, Whose cloudy tops invade the skies, An ancient castle's gothic tow'rs And dusky battlements arise.

Within that castle's mould'ring walls, Now rudely shook by envious time, The warrior-knight, Sir Edgar, dwells, In all the flow'r of manhood's prime.

The pine-tree on the mountain-brow, That waves majestic to the breeze, The willow bending o'er the stream, Not vies with Edgar's grace and ease.

But what avails each outward grace, Or what the bloom of fading charms, When no bright virtue fills the breast, Nor truth, nor faith, the bosom warms?

Elfrida was the loveliest maid That yonder valley ever knew;

Soft blushes mantled on her cheek, And beam'd like heav'n her eyes of blue.

And in her mild and gentle heart Each softer virtue lov'd to dwell I've mark'd, when want or woe came by, That angel-breast with pity swell.

Nor e'er at fair Elfrida's door, The trembling beggar sued in vain; For still that gen'rous hand was prompt To soothe the wand'ring wretch's pain.

But now a cold and breathless corse In yonder grave Elfrida lies." "Good Heav'n!" the starting stranger cried, With madness flashing from his eyes.

In vain the stranger strove to hide The pangs that in his bosom bleed; But soon he check'd the rising groan, And bade the wond'ring swain proceed.

"And didst thou know the hapless fair That sleeps in yonder lowly bed? Oh! then for her, the child of grief! Do thou the tear of pity shed.

Five years their annual course have run, Since first Rinaldo, noble youth, (Sir Edgar's brother), woo'd the maid, And vow'd eternal love and truth.

But, ah! Elfrida's matchless charms Had won the guilty Edgar's heart; Rous'd the wild passions of his breast, And bade him act the villain's part.

For while to all he seem'd to bow At purest friendship's hallow'd fane, He did but plot the coward scheme Her plighted hand to falsely gain.

But now the direful trump of war Invok'd each brother to the field; Rinaldo left the maid he lov'd, For glitt'ring helmet, spear, and shield.

They parted, and Elfrida mourn'd Her absent love with streaming eyes; But, ah! that lover ne'er return'd To hush the maiden's ceaseless sighs.

For, oh! that chief in battle fell; But when the proud Sir Edgar came, With joy and triumph, base and bold, He soon confess'd th' unhallow'd flame."

"And did the perjur'd false one yield!" With wilder looks the stranger cried;— "Ah! no, but faithful still and true, She scorn'd his love," the swain replied.

"And when he press'd the weeping fair, With haughty look she still would say—

'Renounce thy hopes, insulting lord, Nor think to tempt these tears away.

Oh! leave me still to mourn my loss, And let my widow'd heart complain; A heart that only can repel Thy hated love with just disdain.'—

His fame, his wealth, derided thus, His proffer'd love with scorn return'd; Soon chang'd that love to equal hate, And fierce revenge his bosom burn'd.

Then from her aged guardian's roof By force he tore the trembling maid; With bleeding heart I saw the fair To yonder dreary tow'rs convey'd.

There three long years Elfrida mourn'd, Bereft of freedom, joy, and peace; While mirth rung through the echoing hall, And feasts and revels never cease.

There oft, I ween, the midnight moon Has witness'd poor Elfrida's woes; And there last morning's radiant sun Upon her breathless corse arose.

Yet when the sun that day went down, And ev'ning veil'd yon lofty hill, From Edgar's castle, on the breeze The sounds of mirth were laughing still!

Oh! where has Heav'n his lightning stay'd, That doth not flash the tyrant's doom!"— "It lingers not (the stranger cried), The hour of retribution's come.

Oh! dear Elfrida, murder'd maid! Oh! linger near—thou soon shalt see, By this firm hand, thy murd'rer lie A bleeding sacrifice to thee.

For not on battle's bloody field The foeman laid Rinaldo low; 'Twas Edgar's arm that rais'd the steel, A brother's hand that struck the blow.

Though Heav'n, in mercy, spar'd my life, Yet many a long and ling'ring day, Within a dungeon's noisome gloom Rinaldo pin'd his hours away."—

With wild amaze, and deep surprise, Aghast the wond'ring peasant stands; Then sobbing sunk upon his knees, And bath'd with tears Rinaldo's hand.

"But, come," the warrior fiercely cried; "I follow vengeance' bloody call!"— Then with quick step, and frantic mien, He sought St. Garvin's ancient hall.

There 'mid his guests, Sir Edgar sat, With splendid dress and haughty air;

But anguish gnawing at his heart, Black seat of horror and despair!

He started up with wild affright, His brother's faded form he view'd; Down dropp'd the goblet from his hand, And cold damp drops his forehead dew'd!

"Just Heav'n! what ghastly spectre yon! Why hast thou left thy bloody tomb? Or dost thou, dreadful vision! come To warn me of approaching doom?"

"If I'm a spectre of the tomb, What hand prepar'd that tomb for me? What ruffian broke Elfrida's heart? Say, do I now that ruffian see?"

"Forgive! forgive!" Sir Edgar cried, While terror fix'd his stony eye! Thy brother's crime, oh! yet forgive; Forgive, Rinaldo—for I die!"

Rinaldo check'd his lifted arm, He sheath'd the glitt'ring sword again; For tender mercy touch'd his soul, But touch'd too late, and pleads in vain.

For cold and chill was Edgar's heart, A freezing pang congeal'd his breath; And down, with many a horrid groan, The guilty traitor sunk in death.

Rinaldo sought the cloister's gloom, Far from the busy haunts of men; Where meek religion, calm repose, And holy quiet sooth'd his pain.

Agnes and the Water-Sprite

"Oh! why," she sings, "does Donald stay, From me, from love, from friends away, A truant thus from sweet repose, To roam the sea's inconstant breast, Whose angry billows never rest, The sport of every storm that blows!

When last upon the foaming tide I saw the vessel proudly ride, That bore my sinking heart away, While parting on the moonlight shore, He vow'd to love me evermore, And softly whisp'ring, thus did say:—

By the pale moon, and azure sky, By Heav'n's eternal majesty, I swear I'll never love but thee! Ye sacred guardians of the good, That watch us on the troubled flood, Forsake me if I perjur'd be?—

There in the sacred face of Heav'n, My solemn vows in turn were giv'n; And if those vows were false, I pray'd That he who won my faithless heart Should act, like me, th' inconstant's part, And leave me wretched and betray'd."

Thus Agnes sung in artless lays, Her Donald's love, her Donald's praise, Nor dream'd a list'ning ear was nigh;

When, lo! beside the billowy flood A brighter form than mortal stood, And view'd her with enraptur'd eye.

Like golden threads, or sunny beams, His hair in many a ringlet streams Adown his shoulders fair; Bright was his bloom, and his dark eye Like star in bleak December's sky, And heav'nly was his air.

A jetty courser, dark as night, Beside him stood in harness bright, And neighing paw'd the sand; With wild impatience toss'd his mane, While gracefully the silken rein Slung from his master's hand.

While Agnes gaz'd with wond'ring eyes, And thought some angel from the skies Had deign'd on earth to tread, The graceful stranger silence broke, Soft music warbled as he spoke, And thus address'd the maid:—

"Shalt thou, oh! loveliest of thy kind! Be to this wint'ry isle confin'd, And in some lowly cell, With all these bright immortal charms, Be doom'd to some rude native's ar ms, With want and woe to dwell?

Oh! fly with me, my lovely maid, Nor be by vulgar fools betray'd;— Fly on the wings of love With me to some more blessed clime, Where forests rear their heads sublime, Where waves the spicy grove.

Why wilt thou here the absence mourn Of one who never may return? Perhaps the wand'rer now From thy lov'd image falsely flies, And for another fair-one sighs, Forgetful of his vow.

Not such the youth who bows before Thy matchless charms, and shall adore While life his bosom warms; Oh! come, and bless my happy land, Where all shall bow at thy command, And worship all thy charms.

The sands upon my shores are gold, Where ocean's gentlest waves are roll'd, The rocks refulgent shine With coral, pearl, and sapphire blue, And precious stones of ev'ry hue, And diamonds from the mine.

There orange groves extend their shade, To screen thy beauties, lovely maid, From noon-day's scorching heat:

And pleasant bow'rs of rare perfume, Where nature's loveliest roses bloom, Shall be thy cool retreat."

He ceased,—to Agnes' inmost soul The voice of adulation stole, And won her changing heart; Yet conscience whisper'd Donald's name With all his worth, and constant flame; While rising to depart.

The stranger seiz'd her yielding hand, And lightly springing from the strand, With Agnes at his side, With many a soothing word of love He strove her terrors to remove, As o'er the sands they ride.

With hope and dread her bosom burn'd, And many a wistful look she turn'd Upon her native shore; "Scenes of my childish days, farewell In happier clime shall Agnes dwell, And never see you more."

The courser left the sandy shore, And sprung amid the ocean's roar, With many a hideous yell; Chang'd was the spirit's heav'nly form, His native waves and roaring storm Had broke the magic spell.

Mix% with the waves the courser seem'd; In trembling agony she scream'd, And gaz'd with wild affright, While the dark fiend the waves did quaff, And with a loud and hellish laugh, Evanish'd from her sight.

Dread was the storm, and hoarse the wave Rebellow'd 'neath the rocky cave, While echo sadly moans; And oft amid the tempest's roar Was heard upon the dreary shore, The dying Agnes' groans.

And oft at midnight's moony scene A faded form of ghastly mien Across the waves doth glide; And oft upon the passing gales A plaintive voice the ear assails, When wand'ring by the tide.

The Storm

Where round each coast, with hollow roar, The rude winds keep their viewless court; Where ceaseless billows dash the shore, And spirits of the storm resort;

On wild North-Mavin's rocky beach, Poor Eric's lowly cottage stood, And brav'd alike the fearful reach Of howling winds and foaming flood.

His Tamir, partner of his joys, Of all his grief, and all his care— His elder hopes, two hardy boys— The infants prattling round his chair—

These sooth'd his labours, cheer'd his heart; These bound him to his humble cot; The noblest feelings, void of art, Endear'd to him the lonely spot.

Long with misfortune's gloomy train, And want and poverty he strove; Yet shrunk not back from toil nor pain, Bless'd with these objects of his love.

Oft in his little fragile bark For them he roam'd the billowy tide, And many a night, forlorn and dark, Upon the stormy wave would ride.

And soon his boys increas'd his store, For all his dangers now they shar'd;

And often to the wand'ring poor Their scanty pittance have they spa'd.r

Content and health his cottage bless'd, And plenty still his labour crown'd; Calm pleasure fill'd his pious breast, And peace and comfort smil'd around.

But short is pleasure's fleeting day, And like the sun-beam on the deep That glitters bright, then fades away, And leaves the trembling wretch to wee p

The weary cares of day were o'er, And tranquil slept the busy world; The billows slumber'd on the shore, And scarce a breeze the waters curl'd.

When Eric, rous'd from happy dreams, Light started from the arms of rest, And by the pale moon's glimm'ring beams Embark'd upon the ocean's breast.

The merry lads were at his side; And told him many a cheerful tale, As swiftly o'er th' unruffled tide Soft zephyrs waft their swelling sail.

The morning rose with smiles serene; They set their lines with anxious care, And joyful hail'd the prosp'rous scene; The deep so still, the heav'ns so fair.

And fair the distant landscape seem'd, While yet the radiant sun on high Far o'er the glassy ocean stream'd, And blaz'd amid the azure sky.

The awful calm that breath'd around, As if all nature's pulse were still,— The silence broke not by a sound,— With pious awe their bosoms fill.

But soon that awe was chang'd to dread, When rush'd the tempest wild and loud, For sudden storm began to spread, And lightnings darted from the cloud.

The rolling thunder peal'd afar; In rushing torrents fell the rain; The jarring elements at war, With horrid tumult shook the main.

All-gracious Heav'n! avert their doom;— They drive before th' unsparing gale; Still darker frowns the gath'ring gloom, And ev'ry cheek is deadly pale.

Close to his panting heart, the sire With anguish press'd his hopes, his pride— Quick flash'd across the blue-wing'd fire, And laid them breathless at his side!

"My boys! my boys!" he madly cries, While louder still the tempest blows:

On the wild winds his voice but dies; They only mock the father's woes.

The boat is whelm'd amid the wave; Dark horror sits on Eric's soul— "My wife, my babes! Almighty! save" He sinks,—the surges round him roll.

Oh! soft may hapless Eric rest Upon his coral grave reclin'd; And mingling with the sainted blest His spirit mount upon the wind!

But who shall hush his Tamir's sighs, And rear his little helpless train? Oh! who shall stay their orphan-cries? Or who relieve their wants and pain?

No more the heart-broke Tamir joys To see them happy, blythe, and gay; No household care her hand employs— But all is ruin and dismay!

Oft on the shore with aching brow She marks the angry billows' rave;; And weeps for him who silent now Lies cold beneath the distant wave.

May Charity, with aspect bland, Some mild angelic form assume, And shed sweet blessings from her hand, To mitigate the mourner's doom.

The Zetland Fisherman

And heard was many a female voice, That echo'd o'er the rocky shore, And lisping children gay rejoice, And listen for the distant oar.

At length the six-oar'd boat appears, Slow moving o'er th' unruffled tide; Their long, long stay with artless tears, The little prattlers fondly chide—

"How couldst thou stay so long at sea? High blew the wind, and mammy wept; We could not sleep, but thought on thee, Though sweetly little Mary slept."

Anxious the wife her husband views, Who weary drags his limbs along; "Hey, bonnie Kate!" he cries, "what news!" Then carols blythe his morning song.

"Oh! wherefore, William, stay so long Upon the dark and stormy sea, Where tempests howl, and dangers throng, So far from thy dear babes and me?

For dark and dismal was the night, And fearful was the billows" roar; And many a sheeted ghost, and sprite, Shriek'd wildly on the sea-beat shore.

I listen'd fearful to the wind, And heard a groan in ev'ry blast;

Ten thousand fears disturb'd my mind, E'en when the raging storm was past."

"But we've successful been, dear Kate; Behold, my lass, that plenteous load!— To day I mean to dine in state— On haddock, turbot, ling, and cod."

The hardy swain, with raptur'd eyes, Kisses in turn his babes, and Kate, Then to his humble cottage hies, And blesses Heav'n with heart elate.

The scanty produce of the soil Smokes on his platter clean and neat; And though his fare be coarse, yet toil Hath made the well-earn'd morsel sweet.

Then on his straw bed careless thrown, He sinks into the arms of sleep; Leaves it to paltry wealth to groan, And pamper'd luxury to weep.

Ianthe to her Harp

Dove-ey'd pity hov'ring near, On each cheek a pearly tear, Droops her snowy plumes and sighs;— And responsive to the sound From hollow rock, or cave around, Echo, sportive nymph, replies.

Soft-ton'd Harp! Ianthe's treasure, Slower yet thy solemn measure— In more lengthen'd notes of woe, Teach the numbers how to flow, Mournful as the moaning wind, Gentle as the rippling stream, Softly blowing, Smoothly flowing, Waking the fairy visions of the mind, And lulling to romantic dream— Till the music of thy notes, Stealing o'er the gurgling rill, Far on ether's bosom floats, Till thy murmurs gently flowing, Wake the echoes of the hill. Heav'nly sounds! sweet peace bestowing, Bid each raging grief be still— Sing such sadder lays as ne'er Stole upon the slumb'ring ear Of the azure mantled night; While the Moon in cloudless glory, Throws around her silver light, List'ning to the plaintive story From her starry mansion bright.

With all a parent's hopes and fears, His kind paternal bosom glow'd. But, ah! too soon Sir Edwin came, Blooming in manly youth and grace, The gentlest of his noble name, The bravest of his warlike race. We met; and from that fated hour In either heart love glow'd divine; My Edwin sigh'd beneath its pow'r, And more than mutual pangs were mine.

How oft enraptur'd on thy strains, Oh, soft-ton'd Harp! has Edwin hung; And oft of parted lovers' pains, In boding accents sweetly sung; And when my ready starting tear Stream'd at the mournful story, Quick would he change the tale of fear, And sing the dazzling charms of glory, While ev'ry eager look express'd; The martial fires that warm'd his breast.

My father saw—a parent's curse Destroy'd the hopes we dar'd to nurse, Forbad the love our bosoms felt, Nor pray'rs could move, nor tears could melt; With threat'ning fury undisguis'd He chid the foul disgrace, For, oh! my haughty sire despis'd Young Edwin and his race: Long had each house with hatred burn'd, Long at each proffer'd union spurn'd,

And cherish'd so their jealous fears, That malice grew with coming years. Too soon, alas! our hapless fate, A deadlier feud supplies, Confirms their unrelenting fate, And our's the sacrifice!

They tore me from my mother's breast, They tore me from that sacred home Where all my childish days were blest, And dragg'd me to yon cloister's gloom. Oh! thou, who bear'st a father's name, To whose dear arms so oft I've sprung, When from the battle-field you came, And round your neck delighted hung— How could thy lips pronounce my doom, And force me to this living tomb!

My Edwin's frantic last adieu Still hangs upon mine ear; Still on his manly cheek I view The agonizing tear. "Ianthe, ev'ry hope adieu! For hope and pleasure die with you: I go to share the battle's toil, To mingle in its thickest broil; Assur'd I never shall return Thy loss in ling'ring grief to mourn! Oh! when amid the war-strife driv'n The welcome wound at length is giv'n That sets my spirit free;—

The last faint pray'r I breathe to Heav'n Shall fondly whisper thee!"