As love-led he crosses The tones of the night That are sacred to love. His gold-hilted sword At his bright belt is hung, On his shoulder is flung; The maid from her lattice Where he shines like a star, Touch his guitar. She opens her lattice And sits in the glow Of the moon-light and star-light, A statue of snow; And she sings in a voice That is broken with sighs, And she darts on her lover His love-speaking pantomime How wild in the sunny clime She waves with her white hand And her burning thoughts flash The moon-light is hid In a vapour of snow! From the rock on the hill, And the music is still. THE LAST DAY. In English Sapphics. WATTS. WHEN the fierce north-wind with his airy forces, How the poor sailors stand amaz'd, and tremble! While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters, Quick to devour them; Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder, Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven; Flames all around them! Hark! the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches! lies Gnawing within them. Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart strings, And the smart twinges when the eye beholds the Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance Rolling before him. Hopeless Immortals! how they scream and shiver, While devils push them to the pit wide yawning, Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong Down to the centre. Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid, O may I sit there, when he comes triumphant, Shout the Redeemer! THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain, Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud,—the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my found'ring bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceas'd the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er, For ever and for evermore, The Star! The Star of Bethlehem! THE DOUBLET OF GREY. MRS ROBINSON. BENEATH the tall turrets that nod o'er the dell Yet long has the castle been left to decay, "And why should she wander? O tell me, I pray, And, O! why does she wander alone?" Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay, With no shroud but a coarse simple doublet of grey, Lies her bosom as cold as a stone. Time was when no form was so fresh, or so fair, Or so comely, when richly array'd: She was tall; and the jewels that blaz'd in her hair Could no more with her eyes' living lustre compare, Than a rose with the cheek of the maid. She lov'd!-but the youth who had vanquish'd her heart Was the heir of a peasant's hard toil; For no treasure had he,-yet a stranger to art, |