Strong hate itself shall expire!
I also must perish.

Note. "It will readily occur to the antiquary, that these verses are intended to imitate the antique poetry of the Scalds the minstrels of the old Scandinavians-the race, as the Laureate so happily terms them,

"Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure,

Who smiled in death."

The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their civilization and conversion, was of a different and softer character; but, in the circumstances of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally supposed to return to the wild strains which animated her forefathers during the times of Paganism and untamed ferocity."

And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,

Ever more sing the roundelay; And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,

And where was the widow might say him nay?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,

He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;

She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,

For she was the widow would say him nay.

WAMBA.

Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!

Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,

For seldom they land that go swimming with me.

TO THE SUB-PRIOR.

GOOD evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride,

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide;

But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill,

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. Back, back,

The volume black!

I have a warrant to carry it back.

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here

To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier?

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise,

Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your prize.

Back, back,

There's death in the track!

YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

bear back.

"In the name of My Master," said the astonished Monk, "that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus ?"

The same voice replied,That which is neither ill nor well, That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,

"Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;

A form that men spy With the half-shut eye In the beams of the setting sun, am I. Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right!

He

can appal thee?

that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear nor falling;

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound:

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay, For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

What I am I must not show-
What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell-

*Sackless-Innocent.

Valour and constancy alone Can bring thee back the chance that's flown.

Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been
born,

Who read to doubt, or read to

scorn.

Many a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing—
Ethereal music ever flowing-
The sacred pledge of Heav'n
All things revere,
Each in his sphere,

Save man for whom 'twas giv'n: Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy Things ne'er seen by mortal eye.

Fearest thou to go with me?
Still it is free to thee
A peasant to dwell;

Thou mayst drive the dull steer,
And chase the king's deer,
But never more come near
This haunted well.

Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought;

Touch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be bought.

Rash thy deed,
Mortal weed

To immortal flames applying;
Rasher trust

Has thing of dust,
On his own weak worth relying:
Strip thee of such fences vain,
Strip, and prove thy luck again.

Mortal warp and mortal woof Cannot brook this charmed roof; All that mortal art hath wrought