And stretching his arms-as eath
Unriveted Aodh's bands,

As if the gyves had been a wreath
Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude
To the ancient statue's form;
The Saint before his own image stood,
And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver

Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,
They lifted the spear and sword,
And levell'd their spears in rows.

But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopp'd, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropp'd.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre will'd 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 dash'd
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
it crush'd 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 slaughter'd 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 wither'd by palsy's shock,

And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was call'd 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 flush'd the sky, For the Norse dropp'd spear, and bow, and brand, And look'd 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.

"Twas the hour when rites unholy

Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the fresher'd air

Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;
Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas 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 dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"

""Twas 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,

66

Ransom'd, 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 Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

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

And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain, O loveliest maiden 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-
"Twas her own dear warrior's horn!

Wo! wo! each heart shall bleed-shall brea She would have hung upon his neck,

Had he come but yester-even;

And he had clasp'd 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 bless'd him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.

There's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun's green isle;
Thence sad and oft look'd 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 fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell and wish'd 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 for. lorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted bower of love,

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

birds