With a shriek-on the floor the young gipsy-girl fell;

Help," cried Susan, "your child to uprear! Your long stolen child she remembers you well, And the terrors and joys in her bosom which swell,

Are too mighty for nature to bear!"

Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ?
'Tis the chief of Glenara, laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence—they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
“Now here let us place the gray-stone of her cair ;-
Why speak ye no word ?" said Glenara the stern.

“And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spôuse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.

“I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,” Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; “And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream !"

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween;
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen:
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn.-
"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a bárbarous chief;
On the rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem :
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found:
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne ;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.

a

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever,
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?
Where through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,

Under the willow,

Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving ;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving ;
There, thy rest, shalt thou take,

Parted for ever;
Never again to wake;

Never, oh never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver,
Who could win the maiden's breast,

Ruin and leave her!
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle,

With groans of the dying,

There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the raven flap,

O'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever :
Blessings shall hallow it,

Never, oh never !

8.

THE ORPHAN'S DREAM. -Anonymous.

a

Bereft of his kindred, Mohanoe had strayed

To a land among strangers, far, far from his isle ; O’erwhelming misfortune in ruins had laid

Each heart-cheering prospect that once could beguile.

One son, an affectionate darling, remained,

To soothe his afflictions, his perils to share ;
But scarce had Mohanoe the foreign shore gained,

When he sunk to the grave, by the stroke of despair.

All cheerless and lone was the orphan-boy left,

No friends to protect him, or lighten his wo; Of every dear joy was his bosom bereft,

And agonized memory hung on his brow.

'Twas night-and the orphan-boy sunk to repose;

On the tomb of his father the weary one slept : Yet bright were the visions that round him arose,

And he smiled o'er the pillow where late he had wept.

He thought of those days, when, a stranger to care,

Through his dear native bowers he had carelessly roved ; The music of home sweetly struck on his ear

The voices of those he so dearly had loved.

He smiled, as now near to the cottage he drew;

(For a soul-thrilling ecstasy raptured his mind) His bosom-loved friends to encircle him flew,

And their arms, with affection, around him entwined.

A sweet song of welcome they cheerfully sung,

And joyful, he fancied he joined in the strain; His sisters around him endearingly clung,

And kissed him with transport again and again.

“ I am blest!” cried the dreamer ;-"yea blest is the hour!

These lovely caresses once more do I meet ;-
Kind heaven! I thank thy all-favoring power
Thou hast made every sense of enjoyment replete."

But hark! how the thunder now bursts o'er the sky!

It breaks on the vision so dear to his view; While the lightning's dread glare meets his terrified eye,

And calls to his mind every horror anew. "Oh God!” he exclaimed,"is all this but a dream?

Is memory awakened to terror and pain ? So fair was the vision, so bright did it seem,

I thought in my soul thou hadst blessed me again." Though roused from his slumber,—again he reclines ;

He sinks on the tomb where so late he reposed; No longer in sorrow his young heart repines,

For death's icy fingers his eyelids have closed. He rests 'neath the shade of the cypress and yew:

No sculpture attracts the lone passenger's eye; Yet spring a fair tribute of flowers shall renew,

Where his bones unlamented—but peacefully lie.

9.

HENRY FIRST, AFTER THE DEATH OF HIS SON.--Hemans

The bark that held the prince went down,

The sweeping waves rolled on ;-
And what was England's glorious crown

To him that wept a son ?
He lived—for life may long be borne,

Ere sorrow breaks its chain;
Still comes not death to those who mourn ;-

He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms before his throne,

The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave ?
Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair

He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round;

He heard the minstrel sing;
He saw the tourney's victor crowned

Amid the mighty ring :

A murmur of the restless deep

Mingled with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep :-

He never smiled again!

Hearts in that time, closed o'er the traco

Of vows once fondly poured;
And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,

Were left to heaven's bright rain;
Fresh hopes were born for other years :

He never smiled again!

10. HENRY FIFTH AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. -Sauthey.

To Henry's tent a hermit passed;

Their heads the soldiers bent
In silent reverence, or they begged

A blessing as they went:
The king was seated all alone,
The
map

before him lay;
Fresh conquests he was planning there

To grace the future day.
King Henry lifted up his eyes,

The intruder to behold;
With reverence he the hermit saw,

For the holy man was old,
-"Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs

Which thou hast done this land ;
Oh king! repent in time,--for know

The judgment is at hend.