Laste nyghte, as sad I chanced to straye,

The village deathe-belle smote my eare, They winked asyde, and seemed to saye," Countesse, prepare-thy end is neare.

And now, when happye peasantes sleepe,
Here sit I lonely and forlorne,
No one to soothe me as I weepe,
Save Phylomel on yonder thorne.

My spirits flag-my hopes decaye

Still that dread deathe-belle strikes my eare, And many a boding seems to saye, Countesse, prepare thy end is neare.'

Thus sore and sad that ladye grieved,
In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare;
Full manye a heartfelte sighe shee heaved,
And let falle many a bitter teare.

And ere the dawne of day appeared,

In Cumnor Hall so long and dreare, Full manye a piercing screame was hearde, And many a cry of mortal feare.

The deathe-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aërial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Arounde the towers of Cumnor Halle.

The mastiffe howled at village doore,

The oaks were shattered on the greene; Woe was the houre for never more

That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.

And in that manor now no more
Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle;
For ever since that drearie houre

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Halle.

The village maides, with fearful glance, Avoid the antient moss-growne walle; Nor ever leade the merrye dance Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.

Full manye a traveller oft hath sighed, And pensive wepte the countess' falle, As wandering onward they've espied

The haunted towers of Cumnor Halle.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF A

LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.

Book! as fair S-
forms the varied line
Sad sighs or sweetest sympathies are thine—
From pity's lids the glittering tear-drops part,
Or joy's warm surges eddy round the heart,
Ín louder tones convulsive anguish mourns,
Gay Satyrs dance, and laughter roars by turns.
Book! o'er her desk should whispering sorrows lean,

Or melancholy guide her hand, unseen,
Erase the blotted leaves, with gall impressed,
And soothe with softer notes her gentle breast;
Light round her chair when mirth fantastic moves
With tip-toe graces linked and laughing loves,
O! bid thy page the sweet effusion drink,
Smooth glide the pen, and glossy shine the ink.
Book! may no canker, no corroding worm,
Or mildew damp thy sacred folds deform;
Be thine to register, in folds sublime,
To the last hour of all-subduing time,
How peace round S-
A silver halo circling beauty's blaze.

darts his arrowy rays,

Anon.

1H THE DUELLIST, AN ELEGY.

Stranger! who sleeps in yonder nameless grave? I saw thee pause and linger o'er the tomb, Where to the gale those thorns their branches wave, And evening deepens on that yew-tree's gloom.

There sleeps my friend,' the pensive stranger cried: 'O'er the blank stone have twenty winters past: Yet, as the gale amid that yew-tree sighed,

Methought again I heard him breathe his last.

Yes! for I saw the last convulsive start,

That spoke the struggle closed of life and death: Felt the last pulse that trembled from his heart; And heard the sigh that told his parting breath.

Fixed in his breast the adverse weapon stood' 'Stranger! when died he in his country's cause? Blest be the man whose pure and generous blood Flows for his country's liberty and laws!'

O why the grief of other days recall?
Alas! he died not for his country's sake.

Wielding unhallowed arms 'twas his to fall:
"Twas his in death his country's laws to break.

One word, one careless word, escaped his tongue ; One careless word, from guile, from anger free. Blood, blood must cleanse the unsuspected wrongMeet on the heath, beside the lonely tree'—

'So spake the foe; nor, parting, did he hide
The muttered threat, nor glance of scorn behind.
Too well
my friend the glance of scorn descried;
And thus explored his own uncertain mind.

• What shall I do? custom! thy tyrant sway,
To laws of earth or heaven untaught to yield,
And thine, whose nod the brave, the base, obey,
Ideal honour! urge me to the field.

• That field perchance consigns thee to the dead,
Affection cries, forbear, forbear the strife;
Think on thy childless mother's hoary head:
Think on thy orphan babes, thy widowed wife!

1

'Yes, throbs of nature ! through my inmost soul, From nerve to nerve your strong vibrations dartHark, duty speaks-Rebellious pride control,

And bow to heaven's behest the swelling heart.