Ere shot more wildly through the darksome night :
The warrior's helmet and his dancing plume
Were seen and gone-the river's flooded might
Stayed not the startled, steed-it onward poured its flight.

The cloud departed-down the darkness sank,

Nor shape nor shadow followed him; he rode
Down a green vale along the river bank,
Upon a fragrant and a fairy road;

His foaming steed still soft and softer trod,
Then neighed; for, lo! a ruined castle gray

Rose by the stream, clear-dimpling, deep, and broad; Before the gate, and in the middle way,

A stone cross rose, round which the pious pilgrims pray.

And on the summit of that cross was shower'd,
As from an urn, the light of one large star;
But all around it Strife had lately poured

Its fiery strength, and left the scorch and scar
Of hungry rapine and unsparing war:
The tower in twain the burning storm had cleft;
Nor had destruction found one lett or bar,
Save where an iron-clenched door unreft

From one low-vaulted cell, showed all that rage had left.

Sir Eustace looked and paused-for now he knew
The stubborn tower, from which a little band,
When late he harried Annan's valley, threw
Against his war-steeds many a Scottish brand-
Their blood ran freely down the river-sand,
While on their tower he threw devouring flame :
He sat, and o'er his forehead held his hand;
He thought a light from that one chamber came,
And heard a whispered sound that seemed to name his name.

He drew his sword, and 'gainst the clenched door

Struck his mailed foot-straightway the bolts were burst; And there he saw upon that chamber-floor

A grisly Shape-a shape more dread, accurst
Was ne'er from bliss down to perdition thrust;
An iron-bound book lay open at his feet-

Of all its words, he did but read the first-
Upon his brow, huge drops of bloody sweat
Rose as he read-and still his dolorous breast he beat.

Then sinking his sharp teeth in his right arm,

He read and gnawed, and gnawed again and read;
Drop following drop, the black blood trickled warm;
His large grim eyes seemed starting from his head;
His scorched palm full on the
And looked and looked: he had but read one word
page he spread,
When wondrous light was o'er the volume shed:
He read a second-that word was the Lord!
He writhed-for in his soul he felt a burning sword.

And up he started, uttering yell on yell;

Sir Eustace shuddering, nigh the goblin stood:
The sight of baptized thing wrought like a spell ;
Mild shone his eyes-he sobered down his mood,
And from his dark lips wiped the lappering blood ;

Sat meekly down, and closed the iron-bound book;
Then waved his hands-and o'er his body rude
Fair garments came, and odorous dews were shook-
Nought of the fiend remained but his unhallowed look.

"Sir Eustace, welcome these three moons I've look'd
For thee," he said, "and thou art come at last;
For three full moons this evil den I've brook'd,
Bound like a felon-but the worst is past,
The storm of fate hath spent its bitterest blast:
Come nigh, that I may whisper in thy ear

Of blood unspilt, of onslaughts hot and fast-
Of England's arrow and of Scotland's spear,

Much, much have I to tell, and much hast thou to hear."

All mute with terror stood the knight-the door
Flew 'gainst the portal with a thundering crash;
The steed his rein snapp'd with a plunge and snore—
The grisly goblin's eyes began to flash;

He writhed-his iron teeth went gnash on gnash;
He grimly looked upon the knight, and laid

His garment back, and showed a dismal gash But newly healed, as if a two-edged blade

Down his right side and thigh a sheer descent had made.

"The love of blood," he said, "and lust of power

Have wrought my downfall-they are working thine;

I fell from bliss in that disastrous hour

When front to front forms evil faced divine, But one by one, into Hell's burning brine Ambition's godless progeny were dashed;

The heaven glowed red with many an angry sign, From His right hand the living vengeance flashed, And wounded beyond cure!" His iron teeth he gnashed.

"No charm in Hell this scorched wound could cure;
Green Earth I sought; by darksome glen and stream,
And lonely hill and unfrequented bower,

Six thousand years aneath the pale moon's beam
I roved and moaned." A fierce, unearthly gleam
Flashed from his eyes-he writhed him like a worm;
Thick from his nostrils gushed a burning steam;
His elf-locks shook like rushes in a storm;

All hell seemed in his heart-thus spake again the Form:

"One eve, amid the sweet and dewy cold,

I stood on yonder mountain-head, and broad
Earth lay beneath me, and wide ocean roll'd-
Serenest heaven above me lustrous glowed;
Tears came-the sight my spirit touched and awed;
An angel swiftly stood by me, and said,

'Bless'd be these tears-I come to thee from God: Be whole!' His ministering hand he on me laid:

I smiled, who never smiled-the immortal pang was stayed!

"That pang was stayed-but in its place, sharp pain Shot through me-pain for which Earth hath no word;

Malice and hatred, scorn, and fierce disdain,

What are they?-woman's spite, and less abhorr'd
The torturer's rack, the tyrant's axe and cord,

Hot pincers, boiling oil, and, worse than all,
Revenge's mercy and Faith's sharpen'd sword,
Detraction's venom, Envy's bitterest gall,

The pity of the vile, the critic's venomed scrawl,

“Are all endurable-nay, are endured

By that poor worm which He made last, call'd manBut there's a wound that never can be cured,

Far hotter than man's wrath or heaven's dread ban, A wound which counts ten thousand years a span, Given by God's tender mercy-oh! for me

Fires without end, and darkness without dawn, The linked thunder-hell's hot liquid sea

The sight of glorious heaven, where I no more can be!"

He shook his matted locks and loudly laugh'd.
"His tender mercy! I deserved it not:
Did I not on his Tree of Life engraft

The shoot of Death, from Pandemonium got?
Which made his new creation sin and rot-
And yet he thinks of mercy! From that river

The stream shall fly-the sun so high and hot
Shall fall, and die the cold clear moon, but never
Can hatred from me pass-it lives, and lives for ever!

"Though stricken sore with thunder, scourged, and chained, And doomed my body thus to gnaw and tear,

It is a pleasant thing to be ordain'd

To live on earth and feast on human fear,

See hatred grow 'twixt friends long tried and dear,
And thirst of glory change to thirst of blood:

Hail! warrior, hail!-be glad, and of good cheer;
For thou art doomed to tame the lofty mood
Of many a haughty foe by valley and by flood.

"Hail! warrior, hail! Thou man of iron mould,

Thou knowest no fear as thou knowest no remorse

Go, mount and go, and be in bloodshed bold;

Go, fatten earth with slaughtered man and horse, With hailing thee War's ravens are grown hoarse ; Before thee joy-behind, a wasted track

Thy footsteps marked with many a headless corse;
Towers given to flames, and cities given to sack,
While Famine flies and screams exulting o'er the wrack!

“And yet joy hath its limits. Thou, my child,
Hast one dread thing to shun, if not to fear:
Thou 'rt safe in siege-my shield in battle wield
Shall ward the sword and put aside the spear;
The breast-plate bored, helms clove in full career,
Thou wilt outlive them all, have thou no dread;
Therefore be bold in battle-peasant, peer,
Strike down the living, trample o'er the dead,
And pluck Peace by the locks, and dye her white robe red !

"I said joy hath its limits. Safe thy plume
Unsullied dances mid the musket's smoke;

Dread not the levelled lance-but dread thy doom
When wine-cups shine and dames come in a flock;
Thou goest all scathless from the battle-shock,

To where, proud towering o'er the ocean brine,
Thy castle, like an erne's nest on a rock,

Hangs. See its walls with bridal torches shine-
The cheeks of wedding guests are ruddier than their wine.

"Hear ye the mirth amongst the maidens all?
Bedward they look, and trim the torches bright-
And there he stands, the lord of that gay hall—
The priest is ready, bridemaids, all in white,
Move, red as roses, on their tiptoes light;
The smile, the titter rule their looks by turns;
But who is He comes at the dead of night,
Unbid, unwelcome?-Eustace, dimly burns
Thy life! thy bridal lamp, like light in charnel urns.

"Hearest thou that screaming 'mongst the maidens now?
Laces are loosed, and slackened many a sash;
Bright swords are bared, and torches, to and fro,
Gleam where the ocean waters leap and dash.
Thy race is run!-lo! from yon deadly gash
Thy life's blood spouts and stains the shuddering water.
Go, warrior, go!-let thy sharp falchion flash;
Spare neither man nor boy, nor wife nor daughter-

For brief, brief is the space that God gives thee for slaughter!"

The goblin spake and touched him. Love of blood
Rushed on him, as through heather rushes fire-
Through heart and soul shot such a fiery flood,
Swift as light, flies along the electric wire;
He spoke not, but his eye glanced living fire;
And off he spurred-the portal rocked and rang-
Far from its feet his horse spurned sod and mire;
He waved his sword-it like a swallow, sang

In air-he called his men with tongue like trumpet clang.

He called them, and they came all spurring hot,
And marvelling at their lord's unwonted mood;
His brow was dark, his eyes wild lustre shot;

Upstarting in his stirrups, stern he stood,

And look'd possessed, and foamed like one grown wode; My merry men," he cried, "brief is the space

That Fate assigns me to spill human blood;

We may do much in one short hour of grace

A brave, brief course is mine, give fools the lengthened race!

"Short is the time, and much have I to do;
Revenge to take-ambition's race to run-
A land to conquer, and a dame to woo!"
He said, and as he said, uprose the sun
And from the uplands chased the vapours dun ;
His bridle-hand his courser's pace can check,
While like a spider his frail web he spun;

Nor cared, though Fate's iron foot was on his neck-
Or if he cared, I ween, he did but short while reck.

C.

DISSOLUTION OF THE SHORT* PARLIAMENT.

"England, Ireland, and Scotland, attend! Your King came down yesterday to dissolve his (?) Parliament-because despising the wishes of his people and his own Royal wishes, it refused to reform itself, and even stopped the supplies necessary for the support of the public institutions of the country, unless Peers and Boroughmongers might be permitted to continue in the usurpation of your rights—to nominate their dependants as mock representatives of the people, and to sell the power of making laws and imposing taxes."-TIMES, April 23d.

YES, England, Ireland, and Scotland, attend! Your King, your matchless, glorious King-(a man truly worthy by his own personal merits to be the chief magistrate of a free people, and we know of no higher praise)-has afforded you the opportunity you have so ardently panted for of showing the world that the spirit of your fathers has not passed away, and that you are determined heart and soul to do your duty in effecting the great work of national regeneration. And is it possible to conceive a sublimer spectacle-a patriot King, a patriot ministry, and a great people-the mightiest and the most far-ruling in the records of history-all united and inspiriting each other in one bold, but irresistible and final attack on the strongholds of corruption, on the sworn and hereditary foes of good government, and thence of the best hopes of the human race!

:

We have taken the liberty of designating the late Parliament the Short one-not only on account of the brevity of its existence, but of several other circumstances in which it contrasts somewhat antithetically with the celebrated Long Parliament, which Cromwell, in 1653, expelled by force. The early acts of the Long Parliament were inspired by a noble spirit of resistance to the arbitrary efforts of a faithless despot; its leaders were the most illustrious patriots in English history in its last moments, another and far different set of men had succeeded to its management; men who, in their anxiety to retain in their own hands, not only the legislative, but the executive functions of the state, set at nought the wishes and interest of the nation at largemen in fact who, like a great Captain of the present day, said, "there was no necessity for reform, there should be no reform, that the system was perfect and worked well.” The first acts of the Short Parliament were distinguished by a spirit on the part of the men in power, of determined resistance to the national call for domestic improvement; of resistance, not to the lawless will of a selfish Pacha, but to the generous heart-born wishes of a magnanimous King for the welfare of his people; and of base and truly un-English subserviency to the machinations of foreign despots against constitutional liberty. In its last moments, as with the Parliament which met in 1642, a far other set of men had succeeded to the helm-men who saw that the system did not work well but for those who did ill; that there was a necessity for reform, and that there must be a reform, for that the people in one loud acclaim demanded it; and their devoted King said they should have it. A still more curious contrast is that afforded by the mode in which their dissolution was effected. King William came down to his Parliament, without even the ordinary military attendance upon Royalty, and, amid the enthusiastic blessings (cheers is a feeble term) of his people, said, "My Lords and Gentlemen, I have come to meet you for the purpose of proroguing the present Parliament, with a view to its immediate dissolution. I have been induced to resort to this measure for the purpose of ascertaining the sense of my people in the way in which it can be most constitutionally and authentically expressed, on the expediency of making such changes in the representation as circumstances may require, and may tend at once to uphold the just rights and prerogatives of the Crown, and to give security to the liberties of my people." Contrast the mild, paternal, and dignified tone of this dismissal with Cromwell's memorable expulsion-the Lord General's conference at his "lodgings" in Whitehall-his resolution to effect his purpose by the aid of the military-his marching down to the House with a company of musketeers-he takes his seat on one of the outer benches-his inscrutable countenance-his plain suit of black, and grey worsted stockings-his feigned attention for a time to the proceedings-his then whispering to Harrison, "This is the time—I must do it" his extraordinary speech-and putting an end to all interruption by boldly springing forward, and in a voice of thunder, exclaiming "Come, come, Sirs, I will put an end to your prating," and stamping the floor, as a signal for the entrance of the military, "You are no Parliament! I say you are no Parliament! bring them in, bring them in!" and the extraordinary scene which followed.