Whose withering leaves fall round yon mouldering dome!

But tell not my child 'tis his ruined home!

When conscious existence his bosom informed,
And the first blush of life his dimpling cheek warmed,
When I kissed from his eyelid its first glistening tear,
Oh, Heaven! thought I then, I should cradle him
here ?

In that night of distraction, what horrors were mine,

As I gazed on the wave of the gore-mingled Seine.? The wandering blood froze in my horror-shrunk

vein,

As Murder's loud shrieks smote the whirling brain;
The harsh sounds of Winter swept hollow and wild,
As I wrapp'd my torn robe round my trembling
child;

The far-flashing flame from the battlements height,
On my snow-covered path threw its dark lurid light,
In the fierce midnight blast of the startling sky,
"Mid the tumults of death rose the vestal's shrill cry,
Whose starting eye met the fixed gaze of the slain,
Ere she dash'd on the altar her maddening brain.
From the halls of my fathers an exile I fled,
To hide in this desart my storm-beaten head;
Yet Nature has form'd in this desolate wild,
From the haunts of Ambition and Terror exil'd,
The proud soaring mountain, the wide-spreading tree,
The deep sheltering cavern-for wretches like me.
Though my shuddering bosom is palsied and numb,
And my last lingering hope now sets in the tomb,
Like the pale lamp that dies in the piercing winds
breath,

That long, long, has gleamed in the charnels of death,

Yet my soul, unsubdued, o'er these horrors shall

rise,

And linger awhile from the gate of the skies,

My boy to inspire with the ardours of truth,
Or yield him her martyr in dawning of youth!
Though dear to my heart is that sweet cherub-form,
The last precious wreck that I saved from the storm,
Ere he bows to a tyrant the knee of a slave,

Oh shroud him, just Heaven, in the night of the grave,

Or bid me behold him in tortures expire,

On the scaffold yet red in the blood of his sire.

EDINBURGH, JULY 30, 1803.

ADELINE.

EPIGRAM.

O thou! whose stream of heavy prose
Unwearied and unvaried flows,
For Mercy's sake, no longer bore;
Great Lecturer ! we can bear no more!
Dost thou not see how yawning, staring,
Fidgetting, groaning, almost swearing,
We sadly sit, and strive in vain
To listen to the eternal strain !
If thou art doom'd by Fate severe,
Sad curse! to seize on every ear,
No more your friends in torture keep,
But while you prattle let them sleep!

R. A. D.

SIR ARCHIBALD,

OR, THE BARK OF HELL.

A TALE.

BY WILLIAM ASHBURNHAM, ESQ,

Founded on an old Scotch Tradition.

'MID battlements fair, in the county of Ayr, Resided a baron of might,

Sir Archibald Kennedy eke was his name,
Bold, bloody, ferocious in fight.

Now fishers four stood on the shore,
Launching their boat to sea;
To catch their prey, they went their way,
All fill'd with mirth and glee.

The sky was calm, without a cloud,

The moon shone bright and clear ;

No hostile object met the eye,

No sound appall'd the ear.

When midnight was past, a furious blast

The fragile vessel tost;

The seamen dismay'd-now trembl'd—now pray'd—
They gave themselves up as lost.

But it was not dark, when an unknown bark
Hove nearer and nearer in view,

As nearer it came, the ocean grew tame,
Nor longer the whirlwind blew.

Her sails were set,-they're black as jet,
Her masts, her hull the same

"From hence to whence? from hence to whence?" The seamen all exclaim.

"From hence to whence ?"-they ask again,

"To us I pray ye tell;"

When a hideous imp, like a tyger, growl'd, "We come from the gates of Hell."

"For what? for what?" the seamen cry, All shuddering with affright:

"To fetch Sir Archibald Kennedy's corpse,
"Who dies at Colone to-night."

Straight bursting out, like a water spout,
From the deck thick mists arise;
The bark is drown'd, in darkness round,
Enveloping ocean and skies.

The damps as they fell, had a sulphurous smell,-
Now lo! on a sudden it clear'd;

The mists melt away, it is lighter than day-
But the black bark no longer appear'd.

The fishers four swift sought the shore
To the Abbot their tale they unfold;
With breathless stare, and bristled hair,
As the marvel strange they told.

"God bless us all!" the Abbot cried,
"God bless the fishers four!
"And save us all! for on my life
"Sir Archibald is no more.

"Let's haste to the grave, the corpse to save,
"Tho' spectres bar the way;

"Thro' midnight gloom we'll seek the tomb, "Where the monks for his soul do pray."

When the bell was rung, and the mass was sung, When the priests the service close;

As the stone coffin broke at the sledge hammer's stroke,

A vapour of blue arose.

They unclose the lid, they uplift the shroud,
All scream with a horrible yell-

For no corpfe was there, and the Monks they declare
That Sir Archibald's gone to Hell.

A mass of lead is what once was his head,
With sulphur the black coffin shone,
Fell serpents glare where once was his hair,
And instead of his heart-a stone.

Astound they stand, the priestly band,
Oppress'd they quake with fear;

For each saint in his shrine, and the martyrs divine
To their dim sight moving appear.