Without an anchor to oppose

The stream that runs, the gale that blows,

And drives it on its aimless way:

Her spirit wildly gazed around,—

But ah! no help or hope was found,
To bid it seek delay;

And with a sigh, the last-the first-
Her swelling heart o'erflow'd, and burst!

His daughter's form the Baron raised;
Upon her lifeless face he gazed,
On softend hues of tenderness,

With vacancy and languor mix'd;
There were no symptoms of distress,

But all was moveless-changeless—fix'd— And but the eye, and save the ear, That did not look, and could not hear; And but the heart no motion kept,

It would have seem'd she only slept; Though there had ceased the mortal strife, Yet beauty had not fled with life,

And linger'd, loth to leave, though cold,

The fairest of terrestrial mould.

The crowd ascend; the listless air

The Baron rent in wild despair ;

And, as Belshazzar, terror-smote,
Beheld the armless hand that wrote
His doom upon the palace wall,
So conscience did his soul appal :

Fast on the dead was fix'd his look;

His wither'd hand with horror shook;

And on his face, and in his eye

Were throned remorse and

agony !

The child who could alone assuage,
With filial love, the woes of age,
Was by that very father torn,

With him she loved so well, from

Guilt by the guilty must be borne.

And who was he?

The Baron's hearth

Shall be for ever desolate;

The guest no more will seek his gate:
Nor weary pilgrim leave the road,

To covet there a night's abode :
Who, when alone he sits at rest,
Will hush the tempest of his breast;
When painful memory wakes the while,
Who will his tedious hours beguile;
Will lull to sleep his mental throes,
Or bring his sleepless nights repose?-

With tortured heart he roams the

It whispers scenes of filial love!—

Returning home, he seeks his hall,

grove

And strives his sleepless cares to drown; He lifts his eye, and from the wall

His pictured child smiles gently down! Thus, as the dove, that left, of old,

The floating ark to skim the main, Found not a spot whereon to fold

Its wing, and sought its cell again;
His tortured spirit seeks, in vain,
From recollection's throes release;

He finds no balsam for his pain ;
No day of rest; no hour of peace;
No moment where his troubles cease!
He turns, and turns to shun despair;
His refuge lies-he knows not where—
Oh! who on earth would bear his doom?-
And woe to him in worlds to come!

But Baldwin and his virgin bride

Together slumber, side by side;
Danger had not the power to part,
Life did not change the link'd in heart,

And Death could not divide ;

The father, conscious of his guilt,

To heaven yon white-wall'd chapel built, And raised the monumental stone;

Their blameless loves are carved thereon: And there, the holy name of wife,

Of Baldwin's wife the maiden hath, He, who would separate in life,

United them in death;

And hence these sacred walls on high
Are named the "Lovers' Priory."

SIR ETHELRID.

Looking far forth into the ocean wide,
A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight,

And flag in her top-gallant, I espiede,
Through the main sea making her merry flight.

SPENSER.

HUSH'D were the tones of mirthful revelry,
Stay'd were the music and the dance, as fell
On Croydon's Gothic towers and battlements,
The shades of dreary midnight. In the hall
The hearth's brands were decaying; but a flame
Lambently lighted up the vaulted roof,
And circling walls, where antlers branching wide,
And forehead skins of elk and deer were seen,
And fox's brush; the trophies of the chase;

C