On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone, Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;
With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone,
But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan,
For life had forsook not the maid.
Now reaching his palette, with masterly care
Each tint on its surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.
Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,
"Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"
When lo! from a chasm wide-yawning there came
A light tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame,
By a team of ten glow-worms upborne.
Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright,
Fair Geraldine sat without peer;
Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light,
And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,
And a beam of the moon was her spear.
In an accent that stole on the still charmed air
Like the first gentle language of Eve,
Thus spake from her chariot the fairy so fair:
"I come at thy call, but, oh Paint-King, beware,
Beware if again you deceive."
“”Tis true,” said the monster, "thou queen of my heart,
Thy portrait I oft have essay'd;
Yet ne'er to the canvass could I with my art
The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;
And my failure with scorn you repaid.
"Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail!"
And he tower'd with pride as he spoke,
"If again with these magical colours I fail,
The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,
And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.
"But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine!
Thy promise with justice I claim,
And thou, queen of fairies, shalt ever be mine,
The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine
Shall fill all the earth with my fame."
He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form On the canvass enchantingly glow'd;
His touches-they flew like the leaves in a storm;
And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm
Contending in harmony flow'd.
And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem
To the figure of Geraldine fair:
With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem
Each muscle, each feature; in short, not a gleam
Was lost of her beautiful hair.
'Twas the fairy herself! but alas! her blue eyes
Still a pupil did ruefully lack;
And who shall describe the terrific surprise
That seized the PAINT-KING when, behold, he descries
Not a speck on his palette of black!
"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf;
When, casting his eyes to the ground,
He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief
In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief
Whisk away from his sight with a bound.
"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone; Then rising, the fairy, in ire,
With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone
(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan),
And she swelled to a column of fire.
Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air,
And sulphur the vault fill'd around:
She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair,
High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair
Down the depths of the chasm profound.
Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,
"Come forth!" said the good Geraldine
When, behold, from the canvass descending, appear
Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,
With grace more than ever divine!
Он, рour upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs
And dropped them from the skies.
No-never came from aught below
This melody of wo,
That makes my heart to overflow
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light-if light it be-
That veils the world I see.
For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres ;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
Oh, nothing, sure, the stars beneath,
Can mould a sadness like to this-
So like angelic bliss.
So, at that dreamy hour of day
When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play-
So thought the gentle Rosalie
As on her maiden revery
First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul.
MURDER OF A SPANISH LADY BY A PIRATE.
A sound is in the Pyrenees !
Whirling and dark, comes roaring down
A tide, as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown.
On field and vineyard thick and red it stood.
Spain's streets and palaces are full of blood;
And wrath and terror shake the land;
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band-
Bold Arthur and his knights.
Awake ye, Merlin!
The spell is broke!
Hear the shout from Spain!
Arthur is come again!
Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride;
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride.
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmur'd
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.
He fell for Spain-her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
At rest from strife and fear,
And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.
Lee feign'd him grieved, and bow'd him low. "Twould joy his heart could he but aid So good a lady in her wo,
He meekly, smoothly said.
With wealth and servants she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.
The sun goes down upon the sea;
The shadows gather round her home.
"How like a pall are ye to me!
My home, how like a tomb!
Oh! blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head :
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead."
And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she looks towards the shore,
Beyond the waters black in night.
"I ne'er shall see thee more!
Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow,
And I'm alone-scarce know I where I go."
Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy hand upon his brow.
He is not near, to hush thee or to save.
The ground is his, the sea must be thy grave.
The moon comes up, the night goes on.
Why in the shadow of the mast,
Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone?
Thy pledge, man; keep it fast!
Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee:
Helpless alone-and then her trust in thee!
When told the hardships thou hadst borne,
Her words were to thee like a charm.
With uncheer'd grief her heart is worn.
Thou wilt not do her harm!
He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light,
And growls an oath: "It is too still to-night!”
He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold,
And heaps of pearl. He stretch'd his hands.
He hears a voice: "Ill man, withhold."
A pale one near him stands :
Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek;
Her touch is cold. He wakes with piercing shriek.
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