That Reuben kneels beside her feet and weeps,
Nor glance of kindly recognition throws
Upon her stately sons from that repose;
His Rachel rests far-sundered from his side,
Upon the way to Bethlehem, where she died.

Sleep on, O weary saint! thy bed is blessed;
Thou, with the pilgrim-staff of faith, hast passed
Another Jordan into endless rest:

Well may they sleep who can serenely cast
A look behind, while darkness closes fast
Upon their path, and breathe thy parting word,-
"For Thy salvation I have waited, Lord!"

XL.-SHIPWRECK IN DUBLIN BAY.

(DRUMMOND.)

How beautifully still is all around!

Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye
Of infant innocence, in deep repose

These sandy ridges and the waters sleep,
Wrapped in the golden effluence of day.

Far different the scene, when wintry winds
Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides
On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell
The attractive Moon has called around her throne
The congregated floods. Then roars the might
Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam;

The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge
Rolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven
That they are not at sea.

Yet Memory weeps
That night's sad horrors, when a luckless bark
Was hurled upon these sands. Elate with hope,
Some hundred warriors, who in many a field
Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought
Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew,
Each spell of country with magnetic power
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Wrought in their souls, and all the joys of home Rushed on their fancy. Some in thought embraced Their happy parents, and the lover clasped

His fair one to his breast. Another morn,

And all these joys are real!

Thou fleet-winged bark!

skims

Onward speed,

More fleet than sea-bird

The flood, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose ;—
Howth glimmered in the west, and Wicklow's hills
Were blue in the horizon. Then they hailed
Their own green island, and they chanted loud
Their patriot gratulations, till the sun

Gave them his last farewell. He sank in clouds
Of red portentous glare; when dreary night
Condensed around them, and a mountain swell
Announced the coming tempest. Wrapped in sleet
And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast
Smote sore;-yawned the precipitous abyss ;—
Roared the torn surges. From his slippery stand
In vain the pilot cast a wistful look,

Some friendly light to spy ;-but all was dark ;
Nor moon, nor star, nor beacon-light, was seen;
While in the yeasty foam, half-buried, toiled
The reeling ship. At length that dreadful sound
Which mariners most dread-the fierce, wild din
Of breakers, raging on the leeward shore,—
Appalled the bravest. On the sands she struck,
Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp
Of dissolution. Agonizing screams

Were heard within, which told that hope was fled.
Then might some counsel sage, perchance, have wrought
A great deliverance. But what shipwrecked crew
E'er list to counsel? Where 'tis needed most,
'Tis most despised. In such a fearful hour,
Each better feeling dies, and cruel self
Sears all of human in the heart of man.
None counselled safety-but a fell design
Rose in the captain's breast, above the throng
To close the hatches, while himself and crew
Flee to the boat, and hope or chance to 'scape

Leave to the captives none. The recreant slaves
Their ship deserting, in the faithful skiff,

For once too faithful, sweep the foaming gulf,
And reach the strand. But ah! the gallant throng,
Locked in the dungeon-hold, around them hear
The roaring cataracts;—their shrieks and groans,
With threats and prayers, and mingled curses, speak
The soul's last agonies. What boots their prayers,
Their groans, or rage to madness by their wrongs
Exasperated high? Will storms grow calm,
Or warring surges hear the suppliant's voice,
When man has steeled his heart? Oh! now to die

Amid the strife of arms were ecstasy!

Ay-e'en to perish in the conflict rude

With seas and storms beneath the cope of heaven,
Where their last breath might mingle with the winds!
But thus to die inglorious! thus immured,

As in some den of hell! They chafe in vain :

So chafes the lion in the hunter's trap;

So in his coffin turns, with dire dismay,

The wretch unwittingly entombed alive.

:

Now torn and wrecked-deep-cradled in the sands,
The vessel lies. Through all her yawning sides
She drinks the flood. Loud o'er her roars the surge;
But all within-is still.

XLI.-THE BALLAD OF ROU.

(BULWER LYTTON.)

Rou was the name given by the French to Rollo, or Rolf-ganger, the ancestor of William the Conqueror, and the planter of the Norman settlement in France.

FROM Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood,

And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide

of blood;

There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire,

And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire.

To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew,

While, shaking earth, behind them strode the thunder march of Rou.

"O king," then cried those barons bold, “in vain are mace and mail;

We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the hail."

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'And vainly," cried the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel;

For prayers, like arrows, glance aside, against the Norman steel."

The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew,

As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.

Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone?

The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the

throne.

When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease;

When Heaven forsakes my pious monks, the will of Heaven is peace.

Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood, the Norman camp unto,

And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.

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I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,

And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure;

Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword,

And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord."

Forth went the pastors of the Church, the shepherd's work

to do,

And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.

Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread;

Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by the head.

Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and

sage,

$6 When peace and rage?

and plenty wait thy word, what need of war

Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap-Thus saith the king to Rou:

“I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,

And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and

sure;

If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword,

And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.""

The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel they with

drew;

The saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.

So back he strode, and thus he spoke to that archbishop

meek:

"I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michaelpeak;

I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast; And for thy creed, a sea-king's gods are those that give the

most.

So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true,

And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint, in Rou.”

So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where,

Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St,