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Dark deeds were done

and blood was shed In secret, and the spirit led

To fury, and to madness ; Hearths quench’d; and black walls smoking

round; And children's blood upon the ground ;

And widows left in sadness.

Then, from her cloister wall, the nun
Gazed anxious towards the setting sun,

Descending o'er the ocean ;
Till startled by the deep-toned bell,
That summon'd her from lonely cell

To eventide devotion.

Then, from the tilt and tournay, came
The youthful knight, with soul of flame,

His lady's rights defending ;
The glove upon his cap on high ;
And love unto his falcon eye

Redoubled ardour lending.

Or at the Louvre-while his steed
Shot forward with the lightning's speed,

'Mid courtly crowds assembled, The gallant bore the ring away, And turning to his mistress gay,

Their meeting glances trembled.

Now all have pass'd-their halls are bare-
The ravens only harbour there;

And restless owls are hooping
Around the vaults, as if to bring,
Day's rosy lustre withering,

Departed spirits trooping.

A giant ruin grimly frown
Its walls of grey, and roof of brown;

Its watch-towers dimly throwing
Their shadows in the pure moonlight
Far from them, and to wizard night

A doubled power bestowing.

With hound in leash, and hawk in hood,
The forester, through pale and wood,

From morn till eve was roaming
'Mid scenes majestically wild
Dark mountains huge, o'er mountains piled,

Begirt with torrents foaming.

And o'er the precipices bleak,
At pride of place, the eagle's shriek,

Beneath the tempest scowling,
Dismal he heard, afar from men,
In wastes where foxes made their den,

And famish'd wolves were howling.

No voice is heard—'tis silence all
The steed hath vanish'd from the stall,

The hawk and hound have perish'd ;
Lichens o'erspread the orchard trees,
The flowers and shrubs sigh to the breeze,

For gone are they who cherish’d.

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JOHN MALCOLM.

STANZAS ON THE CLOSE OF A YEAR. And it hath gone into the grave of time The past-the mighty sepulchre of all !

That solemn sound—the midnight's mournful

chime, Was its deep dead-bell—but within the hall The old and yoụng hold gladsome festival.What hath it left them thus to cause such joy ? Gray hairs to some—and hearts less green to all, And fewer steps to where their fathers lie Low in the church-yard cell-cold-dark-and

silently !

Strange time for mirth !-when round the leaf.

less tree The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh, And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea, Mute every woodland's evening melodyMute the wide landscape-save where, hurrying by, Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight, Or, slowly sailing through the black’ning sky, Hoots unto solitude the bird of night, Seeking the domeless wall—the turret's hoary

height.

And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve ; She does not heed the woes of human kind; No: for the tempests howl, the waters heave Their hoary hills unto the raging wind, And the poor bark no resting-place can find ; And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in

vain, For, to the ruthless elements consign'd, The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main, Ne'er to be seen by them, nor heard of e'er again !

Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread, And through yon shoreless sea they wander on ;

Where is the place of your abode, ye dead ?
To what far regions have your spirits gone ?
But ye are silent-silent as the stone
That gathers moss above your bed of rest,
And from the land of souls returneth none
To tell us of the place to which we haste;
But time will tell us all--and time will tell us best.

How still—how soft—and yet how dread is all The scene around !--the silent earth and air ! What glorious lamps are hung in Night's high hall! Her dome—so vast, magnificent, and fair ! Oh! for an angel's wing to waft me there ! How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day, To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care, And, midst the immortal bowers above, to stray In lands of light and love-unblighted by decay !

Surely there is a language in the skyA voice that speaketh of a world to come ; It swells from out thy depths, Immensity ! And tells us this is not our final home. As the toss'd bark, amidst the ocean's foam, Hails, through the gloom, the beacon o'er the

wave ; So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam, The stars, like beacon-lights beyond the grave, Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we

hope to save!

Now gleams the moon on Arthur's mighty crest, That dweller of the air-abrupt and lone ; Hush'd the city in her nightly rest ; But hark !-there comes a sweet and solemn tone, The lingering strains, that swell’d in ages gone, The music of the wake-oh! many an ear, Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown, Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear, As recollections rise of many a vanish'd year.

It speaks of former scenes of days gone byOf early friendships—of the loved and lostAnd wakes such music in the heart, as sigh Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost; And thoughts and feelings crowd—a varied host, O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep, Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost, Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep, And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep!

BARRY CORNWALL.

SONG.
Thou shalt sing to me

When the waves are sleeping,

And the winds are creeping
'Round the embowering chestnut tree.

Thou shalt sing by night,

When no birds are calling,

And the stars are falling
Brightly from their mansions bright.

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