Three times, all in the dead of night, is of

A bell was heard to ring,
And, shrieking at her window thrice,

A raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorp maiden knew

The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke

The virgins weeping round.
'I hear a voice you cannot hear,

Which says, I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,

In early youth I die:
Am I to blame because his bride

Is thrice as rich as I?

"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone;
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient both prepare;
But know, fond maid, and know, false man,

That Lucy will be there! “There bear my corpse, ye comrades, bear,

The bridegroom blithe to meet; He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.'She spoke, she died ! her corse was borne,

The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

How were those nuptials kept?
The bridemen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.
Compassion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell;
The damps of death bedew'd his brows,

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more !)

The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
He, to his Lucy's new-made grave

Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,

For ever now remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen ;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green.
But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

Tickell.

MATILDA.

OUTRAGEOUS did the loud wind blow

Across the sounding main ! The vessel tossing to and fro,

Could scarce the storm sustain.

Matilda to her fearful breast,

Held close her infant dear;
His presence all her fears increas'd,

And wak'd the tender tear.

Now nearer to the grateful shore,

The shatter'd vessel drew: The daring waves now cease to roar,

Now shout th' exulting crew.

Matilda with a mother's joy

Gave thanks to Heaven's power: How fervent she embrac'd her boy!

How bless'd the saving hour!

Oh much deceiv'd and hapless fair!

Though ceas'd the waves to roar, Thou from that fatal moment ne'er

Didst taste of pleasure more.

For, stepping forth from off the deck,

To reach the welcome ground,
The babe, unclasping from her neck,

Plung'd in the gulf profound.

Amazement-chain'd! her haggard eye

Gave not a tear to flow; Her bosom heav'd no conscious sigh ;

She stood a sculptur'd woe.

To snatch the child from instant death,

Some brav'd the threatning main; And to recal his fleeting breath,

Tried every art in vain.

But when the corse first met her view,

Stretch'd on the pebbly strand : Awak’ning from her trance she flew,

And pierc'd th’ opposing band:

With tresses discompos'd and rude,

Fell prostrate to the ground;
To the infant's lips her lips she glued,

And sorrow burst its bound.

Uprising now with frantic air,

To the wide-circling crowd,
Who, pity-struck, partook her care,

She thus discours'd aloud:

* Heard ye the helpless infant weep?

Saw ye the mother bold?
How, as she flung him in the deep,

The billows o'er him roll'd.

May deak’d remorse her bosom tear,

Despair her mind up-plough! Its angry arm let justice rear,

To dash her impious brow.

• But soft, awhile-see there he lies,

Enbalm'd in infant sleep :
Why fall the dew-drops from your eyes?

What cause is here to weep?.

Yes, yes! his little life is fled,

His heaveless breast is cold;
What tears will not thy mother shed,

When thy sad tale is told !

• Ah me, that cheek of livid-hue,

If much I do not err!. ,
Those lips where late the roses blew,

All, all my son declare.

Strange horrors chill my ev'ry vein,

A voice confus'd and wild Whispers to this distracted brain,

Matilda slew her child.'

She added not-but sunk oppress'de

Death on her eyelids stole:
While from her much-afflicted breast
She sigh'd her troubled soul.

Jerningham.

BRYAN AND PEREENE, A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD,

FOUNDED ON A REAL FACT THAT HAPPENED

IN THE ISLAND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER's.
The north-east wind did briskly blow,

The ship was safely moor’d;
Young Bryan thought the boat's crew slow,

And so leap'd overboard.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,

His heart long held in thrall; And whoso his impatience blames,

I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long, long year, one month and day,

He dwelt on English land;
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,

Though ladies songht his hand.