The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing ;

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover :-

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,-
My daughter! O my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing :-

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE PRINCESS OF SANTA CROCE.

WAILING winds were round the castle,

Sleepless lay she until dawn,

And the pale light found her paler
Than her couch's snowy lawn.

Sigismund, her only brother,

Drew in dungeon keep his breath;

Many a forest, many a mountain,
'Twixt her castle lay and Rome-
With the Emerald in her bosom,
She has left her stately home.
From St Angel's dark recesses,
Hark! the Miserere swells
For the soul of one who dieth
At the sound of matin bells.

And Christ's vicar, the anointed,
Sits within the Vatican,
With the keys and the tiara,

Power to bless, and power to ban.

'Tis a princess kneels before him,
Kneels to ask a brother's life,
But his cold, averted visage
Cuts her like a two-edged knife.

"Paul Donati, Paul Donati!

She who had that stone of thee Knew thee not as Pope or Kaiser, Was thy playmate frank and free;

"Often 'neath her father's castle

Has she roam'd with thee uncheck'dThou, the chaplain and the tutor,

Taught her more than cold respect.

"Twelve long years, O Paul Donati, Twelve long years have flown since then; She has kept her father's castle,

Thou hast set thy foot on men.

"On the last night ere you left her,
This the emerald which you gave,
Though it bore not then the sculpture,
Christ arisen from the grave."

Then from out her heaving bosom,
Trembling, she draws forth the gem,
And she lays it trembling, fainting,
On his garment's outmost hem.

Suddenly his brow grew scarlet,
Suddenly his eye flash'd light-
"Is she dead who was possessor
Of that ocean stalactite ?"

"By this token, by that symbol,
Paul, thy pupil kneels to thee;
Let the words of doom be cancell❜d,
Let her brother be set free !"

For a moment in the silence

You might hear his pulse's beat, See his hand shake like an aspen As he raised her from his feet.

"Leonore the past is over;
Rome hath set her seal on me;
We must meet no more for ever;
Take thy brother-he is free."

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

LULLABY TO THE SOLDIER'S CHILD.

(From the Harp of the Valley).

HUSH, my baby, lie thou still,

Nor dream of what thou art,

Nor know thou 'rt press'd, O tender one,
To a mother's breaking heart;
Nor know that on the field of fight,
Down in yon doleful shaw,
Lies he, the husband of my heart,

The sire you never saw,-
The noble form which sunk

In the battle's earthquake dire—
And thou, my sleeping baby,
Hast the features of thy sire
The proud features of thy sire,
Who, like thee, has gone to rest-

The noblest e'er clasp'd woman

To a true and fearless breast.

Stream'd on the far-extending ranks,

On bayonet and on gun,

And glared, hot and horrific,

And fierce the whole day long,

While tugg'd and toil'd, mid dust and blood,
The fearless and the strong.

I stood upon the hill and saw
The battle's billows reel,
The crashing and tremendous surge
Of man, and horse, and steel,-
And on, and on the billows lash'd
On death's terrific shore,

But aye one half of the red wave
Was seen to ebb no more;

And where flash'd the dripping sword,

And where thundered shot and shell,
For God, and home, and liberty,
Thy noble father fell!

So I laid thee down, my baby,

Upon the grassy knowe,

And shed the clotted locks of hair
Back from thy father's brow.
Until the red blood stain'd my lips,
I kiss'd him o'er and o'er,
And flung my arms around his neck,
As I'd done oft before.