And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark,
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.*

THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland!-
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fall'n in fight:

And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allemayne!

In

For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil,
yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung,

'Twas her own dear warrior's horn!

Wo! wo! 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.

The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has ever visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the bean tiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.

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 neighb'ring air,
And to think she blest 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 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 Roncevail.

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.

'Twas now the dead watch of the night,-the helm was lashed a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea;

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:

"Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!"

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to mee

her call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,

For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her

hand,

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow,
Are sweet as her's we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

VALEDICTORY STANZAS

TO J. P. KEMBLE, Esq.

Composed for a public meeting held in June, 1817

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !

Whose image brought th' heroic age

Revived to Fancy's view