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Rise on the night-rolling breath of As he lists to the fearsul lay the blast,
Which the ghosts of the sky, When o'er the dark ether the tempest is As they sweep wildly by, swelling,
Sing to departed day.
When the stern fates had power
For oft have I stood on the dark height
of Jura, Which frowns on the valley that opens
beneath ; Ost have I brav'd the chill night
tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd
murmurs of death.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
silent and fast;
III And now, whilst the winds of the mount- Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd ain are howling,
on the floor, O father! thy voice seems to strike When the death-knell struck on his ear. on mine ear;
Delight is in store In air whilst the tide of the night-storm
For her evermore; is rolling,
But for me is fate, horror, and fear. It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.
Then his eyes wildly roll'd, On the wing of the whirlwind which When the death-bell tollid, roars o'er the mountain
And he rag'd in terrific woe. Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire
And stamp'd on the ground, who is dead;
But when ceas'd the sound, On the mist of the tempest which hangs Tears again began to flow.
o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
And the ice of despair
Chill'd the wild throb of care, III.-SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD And he sate in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the
cloudless air, The death-bell beats !The mountain repeats
And the pale moonbeam slept on the
hill, The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark monk now
Wraps the cowl round his brow, Then he knelt in his cell:-
And the horrors of hell
And he pray'd to God to dissolve the And the cold hand of death
spell, Chills his shuddering breath,
Which else must for ever remain.
The Monk callid on God his soul to
save, And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground,
And, in horror, sank on the ground. Till the abbey bell struck One:
XIV His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
Then despair nerv'd his arm A voice hollow and horrible murmur'd To dispel the charm, around
And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder. “The term of thy penance is done!”
And the fierce storm did swell
More terrific and fell,
And louder peal’d the thunder.
And laugh’d, in joy, the fiendish throng, And, from the black hill,
Mix'd with ghosts of the mouldering
dead : Went a voice cold and still,“Monk! thou art free to die."
And their grisly wings, as they floated
Whistled in murmurs dread. Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with And her skeleton form the dead Nun dread;
rear'd Whilst the grave's clammy dew
Which dripp'd with the chill dew of O'er his pale forehead grew;
hell. And he shudder'd to sleep with the In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale dead.
flames appear'd, And triumphant their gleam on the dark
As he stood within the cell.
And her lank hand lay on his shudder. To the wind, bleak and high,
ing brain; As he search'd for the new-made tomb. But each power was nerv'd by fear.
“I never, henceforth, may breathe
again; And forms, dark and high,
Death now ends mine anguish'al pain. Seem'd around him to fly,
The grave yawns, –
—we meet there." And mingle their yells with the blast:
And on the dark wall
And her skeleton lungs did utter the As enhorror'd he onward pass'd.
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,
That in long vibrations shudder'd the And the storm-fiend's wild rave
ground ; O'er the new-made grave,
And as the stern notes floated around, And dread shadows, linger around. A deep groan was answer'd from hell.
IV.-ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER
As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh
of the scorner,
And drops, to perfection's rememHow swiftly through heaven's wide brance, a tear; expanse
When floods of despair down his pale ght y's resplendent colours fade! cheek are streaming, How sweetly does the moonbeam's When no blissful hope on his bosom is glance
beaming, With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade ! Or, if lullid for awhile, soon he starts
from his dreaming, II
And finds torn the soft ties to affection No cloud along the spangled air,
so dear. Is borne upon the evening breeze ;
II How solemn is the scene ! how fair Ah ! when shall day dawn on the night The moonbeams rest upon the trees !
Or summer succeed to the winter of
death? Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven Upon it sits the mournful owl ;
will save Along the stillness of the night,
The spirit, that faded away with the Her melancholy shriekings roll.
breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower,
Where no clouds of sate o'er the sweet But not alone on Irvyne's tower,
prospect lower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the It gleams upon the ivied bower,
dower, It dances in the cascade's spray. When woe fades away like the mist
of the heath.
of the grave,
“Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal VI.—THE DROWNED LOVER The hour, when man must cease to
be? Why may not human minds unveil
AH! faint are her limbs, and her foot. The dim mists of futurity?
step is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer
roam ; “ The keenness of the world hath torn
Though the tempest is stern, and the The heart which opens to its blast ;
mountain is dreary, Despis’d, neglected, and forlorn,
She must quit at deep midnight her Sinks the wretch in death at last."
I see her swift foot dash the dew from V.-BEREAVEMENT
the whortle, As she rapidly hastes to the green grove
of myrtle ; How stern are the woes of the desolate And I hear, as she wraps round her .mourner,
figure the kirtle, As he bends in still grief o'er the “Stay thy boat on the lake,-dearest hallowed bier,
Henry, I come.”
truding them on the public notice. The High swell’d in her bosom the throb of first I found with no title, and have left it aflection,
It is intimately connected with the As lightly her form bounded over the and much as we may deplore the fatal
dearest interests of universal happiness ; lea,
and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas And arose in her mind every dear recol- of this poor female had acquired, we lection;
cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivo“I come, dearest Henry, and wait cal regret to the departed memory of but for thee.”
genius, which, had it been rightly organHow sad, when dear hope every sorrow ised, would have made that intellect, is soothing,
which has since become the victim of When sympathy's swell the soft bosom frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornais moving,
ment to society. And the mind the mild joys of affection
In case the sale of these Fragments is proving,
evinces that the public have any curiosity Is the stern voice of fate that bids collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems,
to be presented with a more copious happiness flee!
I have other papers in my possession
which shall, in that case, be subjected to INI
their notice. It may be supposed they Oh ! dark lower'd the clouds on that
require much arrangement; but I send
the following to the press in the same And the moon dimly gleam'd through state in which they came into my posthe tempested air ;
session. Oh ! how could fond visions such softness deceive ?
POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair ?
AMBITION, power, and avarice, now Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges
have hurl'd are laving,
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding O'er his form the fierce swell of the
world. tempest is raving ;
See! on yon heath what countless But, fear not, parting spirit; thy good
victims lie, ness is saving,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend thro' In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee yonder sky; there.
Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's
Has swept these myriads from life's POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS
crowded stage : OF MARGARET NICHOLSON
Hark to that groan, an anguish'd hero
dies, Being Poems found amongst the Papers He shudders in death's latest agonies ;
of that noted Female who attempted Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his the life of the King in 1786. Edited cheek, by John Fitzvictor.
Yet does his parting breath essay to
“Oh God ! my wife, my childrenTHE energy and native genius of these Monarch thou Fragments must be the only apology For whose support this fainting frame which the Editor can make for thus in
For whose support in distant lands I Ah! when will come the sacred fated bleed,
time, Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's When man unsullied by his leaders' meed.
crime, He hears
-ah! no- kings Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and cannot hear,
pride, For passion's voice has dulld their Will stretch him fearless by his foemen's listless ear.
side ? To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my Ah! when will come the time, when moan,
o'er the plain Thou wilt not a suppliant's No more shall death and desolation anguish'd groan.
reign ? Oh! now I die -- but still is death's When will the sun smile on the blood. fierce pain
less field, God hears my prayer — we meet, we And the stern warrior's arm the sickle meet again."
wield ? He spake, reclin'd him on death's Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's bloody bed,
dreams, And with a parting groan his spirit fled. Plans for the field of death his plodding
Oppressors of mankind to you we owe schemes ; The baleful streams from whence these Not whilst for private pique the public miseries flow;
fall, For you how many a mother weeps her And one frail mortal's mandate governs son,
all. Snatch'd from life's course ere half his Swellid with command and mad with race was run !
dizzying sway; For you how many a widow drops a Who sees unmov'd his myriads fade tear,
away. In silent anguish, on her husband's Careless who lives or dies--so that he bier !
gains “ Is it then thine, Almighty Power,” | Some trivial point for which he took she cries,
the pains. " Whence tears of endless sorrow dim What then are Kings ?-I see the these eyes?
trembling crowd, Is this the system which thy powerful I hear their fulsome clamours echoed sway,
loud ; Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping Their stern oppressor pleas'd appears lay,
awhile, Form'd and approv'd ?-it cannot be- But April's sunshine is a Monarch's but oh !
smileForgive me Heaven, my brain is warp'd Kings are but dust—the last eventful day by woe."
Will level all and make them lose their 'Tis not-he never bade the war-note
sway ; swell,
Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's Ile never triumph'd in the work of hell
hand, Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful And from the warrior's grasp wrest the deed,
ensanguin'd brand. Thine are the crimes for which thy Oh! Peace, soft peace, art thou for subjects bleed.