When the Saint with his crosier signed,
The archer's hand on the string was stopt,
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,
Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre willed it not,
He came and stood at the statue's foot,
Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,
And the tottering image was dashed
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crashed-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crushed as millstones crush the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,

And the pauses amidst his speech

Were as awful as the sound:

"Go back, ye wolves! to your dens " (he cried),

"And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died

That slaughtered the flock of God.

Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood.

These are the spoils from Iona's sack,

The only spoils ye shall carry back; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy's shock,

And I come in the name of the Lord

To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was called together,

A doleful remnant of the Gaël,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.

Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flushed the sky,
For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand,
And looked on them silently;

Safe from their hiding-places came

Orphans and mothers, child and dame :

But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given,

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,
And her spirit was in Heaven.

THE TURKISH LADY.

"T WAS the hour when rites unholy
Called each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshened air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;

Even a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 't was from an Emir's palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:

She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragged thee here to dwell,
Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"—

"'T was on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet,
O'er the purple tide of war

In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade."

"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?"
"Lady, no!—the gift were cruel,
Ransomed, yet if reft of thee.

Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee

Christian climes should we behold?""Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in gold!"

Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

"Fly we, then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"
Soon at Rhodes the British lover

Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

THE brave Roland! - the brave Roland!
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;

And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maid of Allémayne!

For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ?

For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung·
'T was her own dear warrior's horn!

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed-shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,

Had he come but yester-even!

And he had clasped those peerless charms,
That shall never, never fill his arms,

Or meet him but in heaven.

Yet Roland the brave - Roland the true
He could not bid that spot adieu;

It was dear still midst his woes;

For he loved to breathe the neighboring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer,
When the Hallelujah rose.

There's yet one window of that pile,

Which he built above the Nun's green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he

(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,

For herself he might not see.

She died! he sought the battle-plain;
Her image filled his dying brain,

When he fell and wished to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.

THE SPECTRE BOAT.

A BALLAD.

LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of

love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a church-yard's dismal view,

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue.

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but shuddering, pale and dumb,

Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour

was come.