And fondly sound his neck she clung,
Her long black tresses round him flung,
Love-chains, which would not let him part;

he could feel her beating heart,
ses of her small white hand,
-The tears she could no more command,
The lip which trembled, though near his,
The sigh that mingled with her kiss:
Yet parted he from that embrace.
He cast one glance upon her face,
His very soul felt sick to see

Its look of utter misery;

Yet turned he not: one moment's grief,
One pang, like light'ning, fierce and brief,
One thought, half pity, half remorse,
Passed o'er him. On he urged his horse;
Hill, ford, and valley, spurred he by,
And when his castle-gate was nigh,
White foam was on his broider'd rein,
And each spur had a blood-red stain.
But soon he entered that fair hall:
His laugh was loudest there of all;
And the cup that wont one name to bless,
Was drained for its forgetfulness.
The ring, once next his heart, was broken,
The gold chain kept another token.
Where is the curl he used to wear-
The raven tress of silken hair?

The winds have scattered it. A braid
Of the first spring-day's golden shade
Waves with the dark plumes on his crest;
Fresh colours are upon his breast;
The slight blue scarf of simplest fold
Is changed for one of woven gold.
And he is by a maiden's side,
Whose gems of price and robes of pride
Would suit the daughter of a king;
And diamonds are glistening

Upon her arm; there's not one curl
Unfastened by a loop of pearl.

Of this world's treasure-shame! oh shame!
Love, be thy wings as light as those
That waft the zephyr from the rose-
This may be pardoned-something rare
In loveliness has been thy suare!
But how, fair Love, canst thou become
A thing of mines-a sordid gnometre meni

And she whom Julian left-she stood
A cold white statue; as the blood o gas
Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, oor
Flown to her heart and frozen there.
Upon her temple each dark vein
Swelled in its agony of pain.

now

30

Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Her arms were stretched at length, though
478 robíw of
Their clasp was on the empty air: nsɔdq
A funeral pall-her long black hair
Fell over her; herself the tomb
Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom.

It was a dark and tempest nightNo pleasant moon, no blest starlight; But meteors glancing o'er the way, Only to dazzle and betray. And who is she, that 'mid the storm, Wraps her slight mantle round her form? Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, And blood is on her small snow feet. She has been forced a way to make Through prickly weed and thorny brake, Uprousing from its coil the snake; And stirring from their damp abode The slimy worm and loathsome toad: And shuddered as she heard the gale Shriek like an evil spirit's wail; When followed, like a curse, the crash Of the pines in the lightning flash; A place of evil and of fear

Oh! what does Julian's love do here?

And she has reached the wizard's den,
Accursed by God and shunned by men,
And never had a ban been laid
Upon a more unwholesome shade.
There grew dank elders, and the yew
Its thick sepulchral shadow threw ;
And brooded there each bird most foul,
The gloomy bat and sullen owl.

But Ida entered in the cell,
Where dwelt the wizard of the dell.
Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze
To look upon the shape which rose
To bar her entrance On that face
Was scarcely left a single trace
Of human likeness: the parched skin
Shewed each discoloured bone within ;
And but for the most evil stare
Of the wild eyes' unearthly glare,
It was a corpse, you would have said,
From which life's freshness long had fled.
Yet Ida knelt her down, and prayed
To that dark sorcerer for his aid.
He heard her prayer with withering look;
Then from unholy herbs he took
A drag, and said it would recover
The lost heart of her faithless lover.
She trembled as she turned to see
His demon sneer's malignity;

And every step was winged with dread,
To bear the curse howled as she fled.

It is the purple twilight hour,
And Julian is in Ida's bower.

He has brought gold, as gold could bless
His work of utter desolateness!

He has brought gems, as if Despair
Had any pride in being fair!
But Ida only wept and wreathed

Her white arms round his neck; then breathed
Those passionate complaints that wring
A woman's heart, yet never bring
Redress. She called upon each tree
To witness her lone constancy!
She called upon the silent boughs,
The temple of her Julian's vows
Of happiness too dearly bought!
Then wept again. At length she thought
Upon the forest sorcerer's gift-
The last lone hope that love had left!
She took the cup and kissed the brim,
Mixed the dark spell and gave it him,
To pledge his once dear Ida's name!
He drank it. Instantly the flame
Ran through his veins: one fiery throb
Of bitter pain-one gasping sob
Of agony-the cold death-sweat
Is on his face-his teeth are set-

His bursting eyes are glazed and still:
The drug has done its work of ill.
Alas! for her who watched eac!eath,
The cup her love had mixed bore death!
BALLAD.

By L. E. L.

When should lovers breathe their vows?
When should ladies bear them?
When the dew is on the boughs,

When none else are near them;
When the moon shines cold and pale,
When the birds are sleeping,
When no voice is ou the gale,

When the rose is weeping;

When the stars are bright on high,

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming, And glancing round the light clouds fly, Like soft fears to shade their beaming. The fairest smiles are those that live

On the brow by starlight wreathing; And the lips their richest incense give When the sigh is at midnight breathing. Oh! softest is the cheek's love-ray When seen by moonlight hours; Other roses seek the day,

But blushes are night-flowers.

Oh! when the moon and stars are bright,
When the dew-drops glisten,

Then their vows should lovers plight;
Then should ladies listen.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF
LORD BYRON.

The hand that swept the magic lyre is still;
That lyre so wildly strung shall breathe

no more:

Still shall the memory of its echoes thrill Each heart that loved its music as before. No more shall love, hope, joy, or sorrow fill The bosom still'd by death: its pangs are

o'er.

Had I a tear, 'twould fall perhaps for thee; But what thou art we all must shortly be.

Thy sireless daughter and thy widowed bride

Shall mourn thy hapless melancholy doom; And though the chill unfeeling world deride,

Their tears of sorrow shall bedew thy tomb. I knew thee not, yet still thou wert my pride;

And since the flower of life hath ceased to

bloom, Sweet be thy sleep; and may Forgiveness

wave

Her angel pinions o'er thy early grave!
A. W. H.