Her lily skin, so soft and white,

He ribs with bloody wales;

And thrusts her out, though black the night,
Though sleet and storm assails.

Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths,
The maiden had to roam;

On tottering feet she groped her way,
And sought her lover's home.

"A mother thou hast made of me,
Before thou mad'st a wife:
For this, upon my tender breast,
These livid stripes are rife :

"Behold!" and then with bitter sobs,

She sank upon the floor

"Make good the evil thou hast wrought;

My injured name restore."

"Poor soul!-I'll have thee housed and nursed;

Thy terrors I lament.

Stay here; we'll have some further talk

The old one shall repent-"

"I have no time to rest and wait;

That saves not my good name,— If thou with honest soul hast sworn, O leave me not to shame;

"But at the holy altar be
Our union sanctified;
Before the people and the priest,
Receive me for thy bride."

66 Unequal matches must not blot
The honours of my line;
Art thou of wealth or rank for me,
To harbour thee a mine?

"What's fit and fair I'll do for thee;
Shalt yet retain my love-

Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then
Our former transports prove."

"Thy wicked soul, hard-hearted man,
May pangs in hell await!

Sure if not suited for thy bride,
I was not for thy mate.

"Go, seek a spouse of nobler blood,

Nor God's just judgments dread—
So shall, ere long, some base-born wretch
Defile thy marriage-bed.

"Then, traitor, feel how wretched they
In hopeless shame immersed ;
Then smite thy forehead on the wall,
While horrid curses burst.

"Roll thy dry eyes in wild despair—
Unsoothed thy grinning woe;
Through thy pale temples fire the ball,
And sink to fiends below."

Collected, then she started up,

And, through the hissing sleet,

Through thorn and briar, through flood and mire,

She fled with bleeding feet.

"Where now," she cried, "my gracious God!

What refuge have I left?"

Then reached the garden of her home,

Of hope in man bereft.

On hand and foot she feebly crawled

Beneath the bower unblest;

Where withering leaves, and gathering snow,
Prepared her only rest.

There rending pains and darting throes
Assailed her shuddering frame;

And from her womb a lovely boy,
With wail and weeping came.

Forth from her hair a silver pin
With hasty hand she drew,
And pressed against its tender heart,
And the sweet babe she slew.

Erst when the act of blood was done,

Her soul its guilt abhorred:

My Jesus! what has been

my

Have mercy on me, Lord!"

deed?

With bloody nails, beside the pond,

Its shallow grave she tore ;

There rest in God,-there shame and want

Thou canst not suffer more;

"Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child,
Thy wound shall bleed afresh,
When ravens from the gallows tear
Thy mother's mouldering flesh!"

Hard by the bower her gibbet stands,
Her skull is still to show;

It seems to eye the barren grave,
Three spans in length below.

That is the spot where grows no grass,
Where falls no rain nor dew,
Whence steals along the pond of toads
A hovering fire so blue.

And nightly, when the ravens come,
Her ghost is seen to glide;

Pursues, and tries to quench the flame

And pines the pool beside.

The Bachelor's Wife.

MIDSUMMER MUSINGS.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

It is the summer of the fleeting year,

On the brown sward the flowers are faint and few;
All songs are hushed; and but the clear halloo
And 'larum of the bird-boy reach the ear.

Through the warm air floats far the lime's perfume,
But wayside boughs have lost the rose's bloom.

The corn is golden on a thousand slopes,
All crisply rustling to the living breeze;
And 'mid the billowy sound of summer trees
I wander, pondering on departed hopes;
Nor hopes alone, but pleasant lives departed,—
I walk alone-for I am lonely hearted.

What of those blest affections have I found,
Which life should ripen like its summer corn?
Which has not from my feeble grasp been torn,
Of all the love with which young life was crowned?
Hearts which if I should seek, I know not where
To find their graves-yet have they long been there.

These fell away like leaves when life was new,
Smit by that blight which to the fairest clings;
And though I have lived on through many springs,
No greenness follows where those first buds grew.
Still glows the heart, but glows without the power
To give or gain the freshness of that hour.

Yet why should I be sad?-for nature spreads
Her wealth before me daily; from her heart,
Doth joys, proud thoughts, sweet sympathies impart,
Which I drink in as one who nothing dreads.

Fearless that her's, like man's weak mind should fall,
Her face should darken, or her pleasures pall.

Yet why should I be sad?-for I have found

One true companion,—one dear soul is mine,

Whose converse still doth soothe, arouse, refine;
And on my hearth there is a cheerful sound
Of lightsome feet, and tones that in my ears
Ring like the hopes and joys of other years.

Then, though the false depart, the weak descend,
Though lights which seemed immortal cease to burn,
Though it be mine with bitter tears to mourn
Life's sorest sight—a soul-debased friend;
Firm is my faith in truth and virtue's lot,

Though thousands feign, and myriads feel them not. Literary Souvenir.

A WINTER PIECE.

It was a winter's evening, and fast came down the snow,
And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow,
When a damsel all forlorn, quite bewildered in her way,
Pressed her baby to her bosom, and sadly thus did say :—

:

"Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door on me!
And cruel was my mother that such a sight could see;
And cruel is the wintry wind that chills my heart with cold;
But crueller than all, the youth who left my love for gold!

"Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast,— Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we 're distrest!

For cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare,

He'd shield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

"Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone!
Oh, let my tears revive thee! so fast that trickle down;
My tears that gush so warm, oh! they freeze before they fall,
Ah! wretched, wretched mother! thou 'rt now bereft of all."

Then down she sank, despairing, upon the drifted snow,
And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her woe:
She kissed her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side,
Then cast her eyes to heaven, and bowed her head and died.