The account of the consummation of this horrible ceremony, and the flight of the wanderer, is remarkably fine : LXIX. Away-away I rushed;-but swift and high To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they streamed, LXX: What heard I then ?-a ringing shriek of pain, Woman's-that might have sung of Heaven beside the dying! LXXI. It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing, To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know -God's breath within the soul!-It filled that song From your victorious voices!-but the glow On the hot air and lurid skies increased -Faint grew the sounds-more faint-I listened-they had ceased! He then escapes with his wife and child on board a vessel, but before it has reached its place of destination, the former dies. The exile's keen reminiscences of this event, and the circumstances connected with it, are most pathetically narrated. He, however, gains the woods of North America at last, and there pours forth the strains of passionate regret, from which we have already borrowed so largely. The Literary Gazette, we perceive, accuses Mrs. Hemans of an anachronism, with which, if our worthy contemporary had read the poem attentively, he would have seen that she was not chargeable. The boy (says the Gazette,) is represented as being quite infantine at his mother's death, and yet the father had been long years in prison. This is a misapprehension, the father had not been long years in prison, and there is, consequently, no anachronism whatever. We regret that our space will not admit of our transferring to our pages a few more of the numerous tender and touching bursts of feeling with which this poem abounds; but if our readers cannot form some idea of its many and great beauties from the specimens we have quoted, we shall be sorry for them. Of the many minor poems attached to the Forest Sanctuary,' we can only give three, viz. Our Lady's Well,' which we do not remember to have seen in print before; He Never Smiled Again,' an affecting passage in history, most pathetically illustrated, and Richard Cœur de Lion at the Bier of his Father,' one of the noblest Ballads in the English language. OUR LADY'S WELL'* FOUNT of the woods! thou art hid no more. Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain- Fount of the chapel with ages grey! And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now! In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought? If peace to the mourner hath here been given, Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven, Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign, HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. THE bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England's glorious crown He lived-for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain ; Why comes not death to those who mourn ¿ * A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims. There stood proud forms around his throne, But which could fill the place of one, Before him passed the young and fair, But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair- He sat were festal bowls went round; A murmur of the restless deep A voice of winds that would not sleep- Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace Of vows once fondly poured, And strangers took the kinsman's place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Were left to Heaven's bright rain, Fresh hopes were born for other years -He never smiled again! CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey Church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave. TORCHES were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontevraud. And light, as noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of death. On the settled face of death a strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, yet it fell still brightest there : As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show, -Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe! The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul; There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang with a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chaunt was hushed awhile, as by the torch's flame, A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader came. He came with a haughty look, an eagle-glance and clear, But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised ;For his father lay before him low, it was Coeur-de-Lion gazed? And silently he strove with the workings of his breast, -But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed! He looked upon the dead, and sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead, pale on the fast-shut eye. He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek, and the heavy hand of clay, 'Oh, father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep? 'Speak to me! mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred! "Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me, they had not been so white! I bore thee down, high heart! at last, no longer couldst thou strive ;— "Thou wert the noblest king, on royal throne e'er seen; And thou didst wear, in knightly ring, of all, the stateliest mien; "Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!- Tobias Merton tells us we must fill out this page, we have therefore selected the following pleasing little song: BRANDENBURGH HARVEST SONG.* FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE. THE corn, in golden light, The sickle's gleam is bright; Now send we far around Comes o'er the day. On every breeze a knell The hamlet's pour. -We know its cause too well, Earth shrouds with burial sod -Now o'er the gifts of God *For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death. A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. FROM THE GERMAN OF Von Loeben. THERE where yon rocks are sleeping, Beneath the bright moonshine, A Nymph her watch is keeping, She looks upon the river, As the vessels glide along She sings and gazes ever, But, Youth! beware her song. With eyes so softly beaming, Thus doth she look on all, Whilst like clustering sun-beam streaming, But, like the inconstant water, Those glances still have rolled- For the wave is false and eold! Thus sang an old huntsman, who had seated himself on a rock which impended over the Rhine, not far from the cave where, in ancient times, the holy hermit, St. Goar, had taken up his abode, and effected the conversion of the neighbouring fishermen. The waves, as they rushed past, bore swiftly along with them a small slight bark, in which sat a youth clothed in costly apparel. The boat was just speeding to the dangerous whirlpool, called the Bank, where the steersman is driven to the exercise of his utmost skill, to retain any command over his vessel. Yet the youth heeded not the dangers of his situation, nor turned away his gaze from a dark frowning rock, from whence a fair but unearthly maiden looked down, and seemed to smile upon him. The old huntsman now sang louder and louder, for he could not help fancying that the poor youth had set out to visit his true-love, and had been bewitched by the sight of the water-fairy, Loreley. Lute, bow, and rudder had all escaped from his hold; his hat, with its white plume, hung only by a ribbon around his neck, and he seemed to abandon himself to the rushing and raging waters, as though he delighted in their fury, and waited till they should have risen sufficiently high to bear him up the rock. The huntsman might have sung yet louder, and the whirlpool might have risen to overpower him with their roar, yet still not one single word would have reached the object of his warning; for he heard and saw nothing but the beautiful nymph, who, seated on the rock above him, was engaged in picking up little pieces of glittering stone, as though she were gathering flowers, and, anon, gaily scattering them in the water, and leaning over its sides to watch them sink down, and disappear in sparkling foam-bells. It seemed to her victim that it was to him she was leaning and smiling, and he stretched out his arms with a longing look, and stood as if gazing on a far-off star; when all at once his little bark was dashed with a shattering stroke on the sharp stones, and the vortex dragged him to its raging gulf, and closed its gigantic arms above his struggling form. All was now over with the hapless youth. He never rose again. But Loreley looked down with a careless and even sportive glance, gathered fresh splinters from the rock, and smiled like a child through her long fair hair. |