Unfurled the sail, unchained the oar,
And pushed the shallop from the shore.
The holiness that sweet time flings
Upon all human thoughts and things,
When Sorrow checks her idle sighs,
And care shuts fast her wearied eyes;
The splendor of the hues that played
Fantastical o'er hill and glade,

As verdant slope and barren cliff
Seemed darting by the tiny skiff';

The flowers, whose faint tips, here and there, Breathed out such fragrance, you might swear soundless gale that fanned

That every

The tide came fresh from fairy land ;

The music of the mountain rill,

Leaping in glee from hill to hill,

To which some wild bird, now and then,
Made answer from her darksome glen-
All this to him had rarer pleasure
Than jester's wit or minstrel's measure;
And, if you ever loved romancing,
Or felt extremely tired of dancing,

You will not wonder that Count Otto

Left Lady Hildegonde's ridotto.

What melody glides o'er the star-lit stream?

"Lurley! Lurley!"

Angels of grace! does the young Count dream?

"Lurley! Lurley!"

Or is the scene indeed so fair

That a nymph of the sea or a nymph of the air

Has left the home of her own delight,

To sing to our roses or rocks to-night? "Lurley! Lurley !"

Words there are none; but the waves prolong The notes of that mysterious song:

He listens, and listens, and all around
Ripple the echoes of that sweet sound-
"Lurley! Lurley!"

No form appears on the river side;
No boat is borne on the wandering tide;
And the tones ring on, with naught to show
Or whence they come or whither they go—
"Lurley! Lurley!"

As fades one murmur on the ear,

There comes another, just as clear;

And the present is like to the parted strain
As link to link of a golden chain:
Lurley Lurley!"

Whether the voice be sad or gay,

'T were very hard for the Count to say;
But pale are his cheeks and pained his brow,
And the boat drifts on he recks not how;

His pulse is quick and his heart is wild,
And he weeps, he weeps, like a little child.

Oh mighty music! they who know

The witchery of thy wondrous bow,

Forget, when thy strange spells have bound them,

The visible world that lies around them.

When Lady Mary sings Rosini,

Or stares at spectral Paganini,

To Lady Mary does it matter

Who laugh, who love, who frown, who flatter?
Oh no; she cannot heed or hear

Reason or rhyme from prince or peer:
In vain for her Sir Charles denounces
The horror of the last new flounces;
In vain the Doctor does his duty
By doubting of her rival's beauty;
And if my Lord, as usual, raves
About the sugar or the slaves,
Predicts the nation's future glories,
And chants the requiem of the Tories,
Good man! she minds him just as much
As Marshal Gerard minds the Dutch.
Hid was the bright heaven's loveliness
Beneath a sudden cloud,

As a bride might doff her bridal dress

To don her funeral shroud;

And over flood, and over fell,

With a wild and wicked shout,

From the secret cell, where in chains they dwell,

The joyous winds rushed out;

And the dark hills through, the thunder flew,

And down the fierce hail came;

And from peak to peak the lightning threw

Its shafts of liquid flame.

The boat went down; without delay,

The luckless boatman swooned away;

And when, as a clear Spring morning rose

He woke in wonder from repose,

The river was calm as the river could be,

And the thrush was awake on the gladsome tree,
And there he lay, in a sunny cave,

On the margin of the tranquil wave,
Half deaf with that infernal din,

And wet, poor fellow, to the skin.

He looked to the left and he looked to the right—

Why hastened he not, the noble knight,

To dry his aged nurse's tears,

To calm the hoary butler's fears,
To listen to the prudent speeches
Of half a dozen loquacious leeches-
To swallow cordials circumspectly,
And change his dripping cloak directly?
With foot outstretched, with hand upraised,
In vast surprise he gazed, and gazed :
Within a deep and damp recess

A maiden lay in her loveliness!

Lived she?-in sooth 't were hard to tell,
Sleep counterfeited Death so well.

A shelf of the rock was all her bed;

A ceiling of crystal was o'er her head;

Silken robe, nor satin vest,

Shrouded her form in its silent rest;

Only her long, long golden hair

About her lay like a thin robe there;
Up to her couch the young knight crept:
How very sound the maiden slept!
Fearful and faint the young knight sighed :
The echoes of the cave replied.

He leaned to look upon her face;
He clasped her hand in wild embrace;

Never was form of such fine mould

But the hands and the face were as white and cold
As they of the Parian stone were made,
To which, in great Minerva's shade,
The Athenian sculptor's toilsome knife
Gave all of loveliness but life.

On her fair neck there seemed no stain,

Where the pure blood coursed thro' the delicate vein; And her breath, if breath indeed it were,

Flowed in a current so soft and rare,

It would scarcely have stirred the young moth's wing
On the path of his noonday wandering;
Never on earth a creature trod,
Half so lovely, or half so odd.

Count Otto stares till his eyelids ache,
And wonders when she 'll please to wake;
While Fancy whispers strange suggestions,
And Wonder prompts a score of questions.
Is she a nymph of another sphere?

Whence came she hither?-what doth she here?
Or if the morning of her birth

Be registered on this our earth,

Why hath she fled from her father's halls?

And where hath she left her cloaks and shawls?

There was no time for Reason's lectures,
There was no time for Wit's conjectures;
He threw his arm, with timid haste,
Around the maiden's slender waist,