Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair ;- For all God ever gave to her She kept with care her beauties rare For her heart was cold to all but gold, Now, walking there was one more fair A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail : 'Twixt want and scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. L' The Spectre Boat. A BALLAD. IGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick arcund them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss from love's delicious hue: What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves like one that knew his hour was come. 'T was now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levan tine sea; When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud : "Come, traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven !" It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 185 You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk launted from the sight, For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family, Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity O! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, |