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III.
“ Ye watch the dun smoke rise

Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;

Ye listen to the fall

Of gate, and tower, and wall;
Sisters, the time is come!— alas, it is no dream!

iv.
“ Through hall, and court, and porch,

Glides on the pitiless torch ;
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:

Vain now the matron's sighs;

Vain now the infant's cries ;Look, sisters, look, who leads them to the spoil ?

“ Not Pyrrhus, though his hand

Is on his father's brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursed Steed;

Not Nestor's hoary head;

Nor Teucer's rapid tread;
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

VI.

““ Visions of deeper fear

To-night are warring here ;-
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three;

Minerva's lightning frown,

And Juno's golden crown, And him, the mighty ruler of the sounding sea.

VII.
Through wailing and through woe,

Silent and stern, they go ;-
So have I ever seen them in my trance !--

Exultingly they guide

Destruction's fiery-tide, And lift the dazzling shield, and poise the deadly lance.

VIII.

“ Lo! where the old man stands,

Folding his palsied hands, And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer :

· Where is my noble son,

My best, my bravest one,-
Troy's hope and Priam’s,—where is Hector, where ?'

IX.
“ Why is thy falchion grasped ?

Why is thy helmet clasped ?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine !--

The altar reeks with gore;-

Oh sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine !

“ And ye, alas! must roam,

Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave;

Ye may not from those bowers

Gather the trampled flowers,
To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.

XI.
“ Away, away! the gale

Stirs the white-bosomed sail ;
Hence !- look not back to freedom or to fame;

Labour must be your doom,

Night-watchings, days of gloom, The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

XII.
“Even now some Grecian dame

Beholds the signal flame,
And waits expectant the returning fleet;

• Why lingers yet my lord ?

Hath he not sheathed his sword —
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?'

XIII.

“ Me too the dark Fates call;

Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne ;-

I tell of others’ lot;

They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phoebus, hide from me mine own."

THE SMUGGLER’S LAST TRIP.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ TALES AND CONFESSIONS."

There is a certain part of the coast of Kent, which may be described with sufficient minuteness to make it serve as a local habitation for the following story, without wounding unnecessarily, by too great resemblance, the feelings of a respectable family, still numbered among its inhabitants. The circumstances I have undertaken to relate, if stripped of some details not generally known, would seem to involve merely one of those calamitous occurrences which visit, like a periodical curse, every neighbourhood where the wild and lawless trade of the smuggler is carried on ; but, taken conjointly with the peculiarities alluded to, they come home to men's bosoms with a strange and startling sensation, and cause us to turn an inward look of wonder, mingled with fear, upon the mysteries of the human mind.

The sea at this place is seldom calm, even when the winds are still. What is technically called a “jubble,” rises perpetually upon the rocks, and renders it unsafe for very small craft to anchor within their shadow. But

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