Page images

When splendor offers, and when Fame incites,
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights,
Reject the boon, and weary'd with the change,
Renounce the wish which first induced to range;
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once more,
Trace once again Old Trent's romantic shore,
And tir'd with worlds, and all their busy ways,
Here waste the little remnant of


But, if the Fates should this last wish deny,
And doom me on some foreign shore to die;
Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;
Or, that my corse, should on some desert strand,
Lie, stretch'd beneath the Simoöm's blasting hand:
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,
My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom,
Ride on the wind that

the leafless

Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,
Sit, a loro spectre, on yon well-known grave,
And mix its moanings with the desert wave.




THE night it was dark, and the moon it shone

Serenely on the Sea,
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock

They murmur'd pleasantly.

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore,

A maiden full fair to the sight; Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,

And turn’d it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear

It tilld her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear,

Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth

Of all our good King's men, And he was gone to the Holy Land

To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had pass'd away,

And many a rolling year,
But nothing the maid from Palestine

Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce

The Ocean's misty face;
Full oft she thought her lover's bark

She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light

In the high rock's lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land,

Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair bad seiz'd her breast,

And sunken in her eye: « Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, " And I in


will die."

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore,

The Curlew screani'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart,

Much boding of her love.

Yet still she kept her lonely way,

And this was all her cry, « Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live,

And I in peace shall die,"

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