But once again in heaven the bands
Of thunder-spirits clapt their hands.
"Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
I found the helmet of my chief,

His bow still hanging on our wall;
And took it down, and vow'd to rove
This desert place a huntress bold;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero's child,
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;

And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake, The flower of Love-lies-bleeding."

LAST SCENE IN GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

A SCENE of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow: And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow. There sad spectatress of her country's wo! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!

But short that contemplation-sad and short The pause that bid each much-loved scene adieu! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, [flew ; Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,

The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds, And Albert, Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon’d; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wounds, These drops?-O God! the life-blood is her own. And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown, “Weep not, O love!" she cries, "to see me bleed— Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds;-yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

"Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, O think,
And let it mitigate thy wo's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust! "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No! I shall love thee still when death itself is past.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none In future times-no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death, to be Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"

Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips; but still their And beautiful expression scem'd to melt [bland With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah! heart where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

Он, leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark, unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that love has whisper'd here, Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As love's own altar honour me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

THE Honourable and Very Reverend WILLIAM HERBERT, now Dean of Manchester, was born in 1778, in the county of Hampshire, and is the third son of HENRY third Earl of CAERNARVON and Lady ELIZABETH WYNDHAM, sister of the late Earl of EGREMONT, being descended directly on the father's side from the Earls of PEMBROKE, and on the mother's from the Earls of PERCY. He was educated at Eton, with his brother, the late earl, who was himself distinguished for his ability as a speaker in the House of Lords, and for his strenuous denunciation of King GEORGE the Fourth in the matter of the divorce of Queen CAROLINE. From Eton Mr. HERBERT went to Christ's Church, Oxford, in which university he was afterward elected fellow of Merton College; and both at school and the university he obtained high distinction as a classical scholar. He adopted civil and ecclesiastical law as his profession, became a member of Doctors Commons, was retained largely by American shipholders in the admiralty suits previous to the last war, and in the case of the Snipe, delivered an argument which was considered the ablest that was produced in any of those cases, and which Sir WILLIAM SCOTT said contained so many and strong new points that he must take time to consider previous to giving a decision. During the consideration, however, war was declared, in consequence of earlier confiscations, and the decision was at length adverse. About this time Mr. HERBERT was returned to the House of Commons for the borough of Cricklade in Wiltshire, and afterward for his native county, in a strongly contested election, and in the House soon came to be considered a rising member of uncommon promise. During this time he had the satisfaction of sharing the glory of the immortal WILBERFORCE, with whom he was a steady co-operator, in the abolition of the slave trade. Shortly afterward, all hopes of the Whig party, to which he was attached, coming into power, being destroyed by the change in the Prince Regent's policy, and his brother having sold the borough of Cricklade, Mr. HERBERT, who had in the

meantime married the daughter of Viscount ALLEN, with an increasing family, and no hopes of political success,-took orders in the church, for which he had always felt a strong inclination, and was inducted to a valuable rectory in Yorkshire, in the gift of his uncle the Earl of EGREMONT, where he has constantly resided since 1816, dividing his time between his parishioners, his literary pursuits, and his beautiful gardens and collection of exotics. In 1840 he was installed to the deanery of Manchester, whereby his sphere of utility and benevolence has been very much increased, although it is to be feared that his leisure for literary occupation may be considered almost at an end.

Mr. HERBERT'S writings are in many languages, and are as remarkable for their variety, as for their depth, their compass, and their correctness. As a botanist, it would probably not be too much to say, that throughout the world he has no living superior; as a naturalist and ornithologist, he has produced much new and accurate information; as a preacher, he is one of the first in the church of which he is among the brightest ornaments. As a classical scholar, of exquisite taste and finish, his whole mind thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the Greek and Roman orators and poets, he has been favourably known from his childhood upward; and he still continues to compose in the dead languages with fluency and grace, as sor some of our selections from his recent works will show. At a period when the tongues of northern Europe, the Scandinavian and Sclavonic, little known even now, were utterly unstudied, Mr. HERBERT made himself so thoroughly a proficient in their intricacies as to compose in them likewise easily and well; as also in the sweeter and more usually known languages of Italy and Spain.

His poetry consists, for the most part, of original poems and translations, either on the northern model, or from the northern tongue. The grandest and most sustained of all is "Attila," which the Edinburgh Review pronounced the most Miltonic poem that has appeared since "Paradise Regained." Their

character will be best shown by the copious extracts given below; it may not be, however, superfluous to add, that in his knowledge and practice of rythm and versification, no one is superior to our author.

After the withdrawal of Lord FRANCIS EGERTON from the chair of the British Association, when it was assembled at Manchester, his place was supplied by the Dean, who took the opportunity of delivering a handsome compliment to Mr. EVERETT, and America, of which country, as being in politics a mild and now conservative Whig, he has ever been

a steady and consistent friend. In politics he gave his support to the movers of Roman Catholic emancipation; and he seconded the nomination of Lord MORPETH for Yorkshire during the excitement previous to the passage of the reform bill, in favour of which he voted. It may not be impertinent to add, that he has recently been elected a corresponding member of the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. An edition of his writings, comprising his poems, criticisms, and sermons, was published by Bohn, in three large octavo volumes, in 1842.

THE PHANTOM FIGHT.

THE night was calm and murky; the soft gale
Seem'd to diffuse fair peace o'er hill and vale;
But Hilda slept not, whom the strong desire
Of her lost Hedin gnaw'd with secret fire.
To the still grave she bent her fearless way,
While her dark thoughts with nature's gloom
conspire;

Awhile she seem'd in anguish to survey
The monumental pile above his mouldering clay.

But not to mourn she sought that mansion lone,
Or weep unseen upon the dreary stone,
And in her sorrow there was nothing meek;
Gloomy her eye, and lowering seem'd to speak
A soul by deep and struggling cares distraught;
And the bright hectic flush upon her cheek

Told the mind's fever, and the darkling thought With haughty high designs and steadfast passion fraught.

Strange signs upon the tomb her hands did trace; Then to the witching north she turn'd her face, And in slow measure breathed that fatal strain, Whose awful harmony can wake the slain, Rive the cold grave, and work the charmer's will. Thrice, as she call'd on Hedin, rang the plain; Thrice echo'd the dread name from hill to hill! Thrice the dark wold sent back the sound, and all was still.

Then shook the ground as by an earthquake rent, And the deep bowels of the tomb upsent A voice, a shriek, a terror; sounds that seem'd Like those wild fancies by a sinner dream'd; A clang of deadly weapons, and a shout: With living strength the heaving granite teem'd, Inward convulsion, and a fearful rout, [out. As if fiends fought with fiends, and hell was bursting And then strange mirth broke frantic on her ear, As if the evil one was lurking near; While spectres wan, with visage pale and stark, Peep'd ghastly through the curtain of the dark, With such dire laugh as phrensy doth bewray, It needs a gifted hand, with skill to mark

Hilda's proud features, which no dread betray, Calm amid lonesome deeds and visions of dismay. On her pale forehead stream'd an eyrie light From that low mansion of infernal night, Displaying her fair shape's majestic mould In beauteous stillness; but an eye that told More sense of inward rapture than of wo, Thoughts of forbidden joy, and yearnings bold. On the lone summits of eternal snow [glow. So shines, in nature's calm, the pure sky's azure Speechless she gazed, as from the yawning tomb Rose Hedin, clad as when he met his doom. Dark was his brow, his armour little bright, And dim the lustre of his joyless sight; His habergeon with blood all sprinkled o'er, Portentous traces of that deadly fight.

His pallid cheek a mournful sadness wore, And his long flowing locks were all defiled with gore. There have been those, who, longing for the dead, Have gazed on vacancy till reason fled; And some dark vision of the wandering mind Had ta'en the airy shape of human kind, Giving strange voice to echoes of the night, And warning sounds by heaven's high will design'd:

But this was bodily which met her sight, And palpable as once in days of young delight. High throbb'd her heart; the pulse of youth swell'd high;

Love's ardent lightning kindled in her eye; And she has sprung into the arms of death, Clasp'd his cold limbs, in kisses drunk his breath; In one wild trance of rapturous passion blest, And reckless of the hell that yawn'd beneath. On his dire corslet beats her heaving breast, And by her burning mouth his icy lips are press'd. Stop, fearless beauty! hope not that the grave Will yield its wealth, which frantic passion gave, Though spells accursed may rend the solid earth, Hell's phantoms never wake for joy or mirth! Hope not that love with death's cold hand can wed, Or draw night's spirits to a second birth! Mark the dire vision of the mound with dread, Gaze on thy horrid work, and tremble for the dead!

All arm'd, behold her vengeful father rise, And loud, Forbear, dishonour'd bride!" he cries. With starting sinews from her grasp has sprung The cold wan form, round which her arms were Again in panoply of warlike steel [flung; They wake those echoes to which Leyra rung; Fierce and more fierce each blow they seem to deal, And smite with ruthless blade the limbs that nothing feel.

Darkling she stands beside the silent grave, And sees them wield the visionary glaive. What charm has life for her that can compare With the deep thrill of that renew'd despair? To raise the fatal ban, and gaze unseen, As once in hope, on all her fondest care! In death's own field life's trembling joys to glean, And draw love's keen delight from that abhorr'd scene!

The paths of bliss are joyous, and the breast Of thoughtless youth is easy to be blest. There is a charm in the loved maiden's sigh; There is sweet pleasure in the calm blue sky. When nature smiles around; the mild control Of buoyant fancy bids the pulse throb high; But when strong passion has engross'd the soul, All other joys are dead; that passion is its whole. The beaming sun may wake the dewy spring, The flowers may smile, and the blithe greenwood ring;

Soft music's touch may pour its sweetest lay, And young hearts kindle in their hour of May; But not for Hilda shall life's visions glow; One dark deep thought must on her bosom prey. Her joys lie buried in the tomb below, [flow. And from night's phantoms pale her deadly bliss must

There still each eve, as northern stories tell, By that lone mound her spirit wakes the spell; Whereat those warriors, charmed by the lay, Renew, as if in sport, the deadly fray: Till when, as paler grows the gloom of night, And faint begins to peer the morning's ray, The spectre pageant fadeth from the sight, And vanisheth each form before the eye of light.

THE DESCENT TO HELA.

HARD by the eastern gate of hell In ancient time great Vala fell; And there she lies in massive tomb Shrouded by night's eternal gloom, Fairer than gods, and wiser, she Held the strange keys of destiny; And not one dark mysterious hour Was veil'd from her all-searching power. She knew what chanced, ere time began, Ere world there was, or gods, or man; And, had she list, she might have told Of things that would appal the bold. No mortal tongue has ever said What hand unknown laid Vala dead;

But yet, if rumour rightly tells,
In her cold bones the spirit dwells;
And, if intruder bold presume,
Her voice unfolds his hidden doom:
And oft the rugged ear of death
Is soothed by her melodious breath,
Slow-rising from the hollow stone
In witching notes and solemn tone;
Immortal strains, that tell of things,
When the young down was on the wings
Of hoary Time, and sometimes swell
With such a wild enchanting spell,
As heard above would fix the eye
Of nature in sweet ecstasy,
Steal every sense from mortal clay,
And drag the willing soul away.

Dark is the path, and wild the road,
That leads unto that dread abode;
By shelving steeps, through brier and wood,
Through yawning cliff and cavern'd flood,
Where thousand treacherous spirits dwell,
Loose the huge stones, bid waters swell,
And guard the dire approach of hell.
And none, since that high Lord of heaven,
To whom the sword of death is given,
Stern Odin, for young Balder's sake,
Has dared the slumbering Vala wake.
But love can pass o'er brier and stone
Unharm'd, through floods and forests lone;
Love can defy the treacherous arm
Of spirits leagued to work its harm,
Pierce the dread silence of the tomb,
And smooth the way, and light the gloom.
Whence art thou? essence of delight!
Pure as the heavens, or dark as night!
Feeding the soul with fitful dreams,
And ever blending the extremes
Of joys so fearful, cares so sweet,
That wo and bliss together meet!
Thy touch can make the lion mild,
And the sweet ringdove fierce and wild.
Thy breath can rouse the gentlest maid
That e'er on couch of down was laid,
Brace her soft limbs to meet the cold,
And make her in the danger bold;
The breast, that heaves so lily-white,
Defy the storms and brave the night,
While the rude gales that toss her hair,
Seem whispers of the tremulous air,
And heaviest toils seem passing light,
And every peril new delight.

Oh, whose is that love-lighted eye! What form is that, slow gliding by? Sweet Helga, risen from the bed Where sleepless lay thy virgin head, Thou darest explore that dread abyss, To learn what tides thee, wo or bliss! Whether it stand by fate decreed That stern Angantyr's breast shall bleed, Or he to whom in secret turn'd Thy heart with gentle passion burn'd, He whom thy soul had learn'd to cherish, For thy dear sake untimely perish.

The night was calm; a pallid glow Stream'd o'er the wide extended snow,

Which like a silvery mantle spread
O'er copse, and dale, and mountain's head.
Oh, who has witness'd near the pole
The full-orb'd moon in glory roll!
More splendid shines her lustrous robe,
And larger seems the radiant globe;
And that serene unnumber'd choir,
That pave the heaven's blue arch with fire,
Shoot through the night with brighter gleam,
Like distant suns, their twinkling beam.
While in the north its streamers play,
Like mimic shafts of orient day;
The wondrous splendour, fiery red,
Round half the welkin seems to spread,
And flashes on the summits bleak
Of snowy crag or ice-clad peak,
Lending a feeble blush, to cheer
The twilight of the waning year.
The thoughtful eye undazzled there
May pierce the liquid realms of air,
And the rapt soul delighted gaze

On countless worlds that round it blaze.
No floating vapour dims the sight

That dives through the blue vault of night,
While distance yields to fancy's power,
And rapture rules the silent hour.

A calm so holy seem'd to brood

O'er white-robed hill and frozen flood,
A charm so solemn and so still,
That sure, if e'er the sprites of ill
Shrink from the face of nature, this
Must be the hallow'd hour of bliss,
When no dark elves or goblins rude
Dare on the walks of man intrude.

Pure as the night, at that calm hour,
Young Helga left her virgin bower;
And trod unseen the lonely road
To gloomy Hela's dire abode.
The broken path and toilsome way
Adown a sloping valley lay,
Where solid rocks on either side
Might have the hand of time defied;
But some convulsion of old earth
Had given the narrow passage birth.
Onward with labouring steps and slow
The virgin pass'd, nor fear'd a foe.
The moon threw gloriously bright
On the gray stones her streaming light;
Till now the valley wider grew,
And the scene scowl'd with dreariest hue.
From the steep crag a torrent pouring
Dash'd headlong down, with fury roaring,
Through frozen heaps that midway hung;
And, where the beams their radiance flung,
Columns of ice and massive stone
Blending and undistinguish'd shone;
"While each dark shade their forms between
Lent deeper horror to the scene;
And gloomy pines, that far above
Lean'd from the high and rocky cove,
With frozen spray their heads besprent
Under the hoary burden bent.
Before her spread a forest drear
Of antique trees with foliage sere;
Wreath'd and fantastic were their roots,

And one way stretch'd their stunted shoots:
Each hollow trunk some beast might hide,
Or fiends more wily there abide.
She seem'd in that strange wilderness
A spirit sent to cheer and bless,
A beauteous form of radiant light
Charming the fearful brow of night.
The wind, with a low whisper'd sigh,
Came rushing through the branches dry;
Heavy and mournful was the sound,
And seem'd to sweep along the ground.
The virgin's heart throbb'd high; the blood
Beat at its doors with hastier flood:
But firm of purpose, on she pass'd,
Nor heeded the low rustling blast.
A mist hung o'er the barren ground,
And soon she was all mantled round
In a thick gloom, so dark and dread,
That hardly wist she where to tread.
Mute horror brooded o'er the heath,
And all was dark and still as death:
When sudden a loud gust of wind,
Shaking the forest, roar'd behind,
And wolves seem'd howling in the brake,
And in her path the hissing snake.
Then all was hush'd; till swift and sheen
A meteor flash'd upon the scene;
A hoarse laugh burst upon her ear,
And then a hideous shriek of fear.
Dire phantoms, in the gloom conceal'd,
Were instant by that light reveal'd;
For, lurking sly, behind each tree
Strange faces peep'd with spiteful glee,
And ghastly forms and shapes obscene
Glided the hoary rocks between.
Oh, who shall save thee, Helga! mark
The ambush'd spirits of the dark!
Those are the powers accurs'd, that ride
The blasting whirlwind, and preside
O'er nature's wrecks; whose hands delight
To weave the tempest of the night,
Spread the red pestilence, and throw
A deeper gloom o'er human wo!
Those are the fiends, that prompt the mind
To deeds of darkness, and behind
Send their fell crew with sickening breath,
Despair, and infamy, and death!

Nor yet unmoved the virgin gazed;
She trembled as that meteor blazed;
But high she spread her white arms sheen,
And thus she pray'd to beauty's queen.

"Immortal Freya! if e'er my mind Has to thy gentle rites inclined; If e'er my hand fresh garlands wove Of flowers, the symbols of chaste love, And cull'd from all its blooming hoards The sweets which opening spring affords ; If I have knit the silken twine To deck thy pure and honour'd shrine; Immortal Freya, attend my prayer! To a lone virgin succour bear! Give me to reach great Vala's grave, And from the powers of darkness save!" Fair Helga spoke; and as she pray'd, A charm descended on the maid,