Then will I pall me in tempestuous gloom;
Athwart thy banks in sevenfold *thunders roll,
And heap thy billowing tide,

Black, rough, as lava-fields.

And (when I've learnt to sway destroying storms,
To line the lightning with impurpled flame,
And from unerring hand

To hurl the fiery doom,)

Yon troof, profaner of my realm, assail,
The gathered terrors of this red right arm
Thine isle of rock shall quake,

And every building fall:

* From one situation on the lake an echo repeats seven times.

JOSEPH POCKLINGTON, Efq. has decorated an island in the lake of which he is owner, with stables in the form of a church, a mock fort neatly white-wash'd, a trim boat-house leaning on the remains of a Druidical Temple, whose central ftone is yearly painted with white lead and oil, &c.

The roaring surges from its shore shall dash
The painted traces of thy harlot-taste;
Thy hall wide-wasting flame

To shapeless ruin sear.

There, (as o'er slaughter-fields the Fiend of war
Broods smiling, while his swollen nostril drinks

The cloud of steaming blood

And agonizing groans,)

Awhile I'll lower o'er the crumbling wrack
Till the gusts slink anew to wombing dens,
The clouds uncurtain heaven,

The murmuring waters hush.

Then shall my satiate ire no more forbid

The tears of twilight on the isle to gleam,
Or rainbow-girded showers

To kiss the flowery shore.

90

95

100

I'll show the Elves where on its scented brink

105

The purple violets drench their heads in dew,
The dawn-hued primrose blooms,
Or waves the eglantine.

The rifted oak with misletoe shall teem,
The vervain gad along the pathless soil,

And from the mossier walls,

Unfading ivy bow.

From cloudy exile will I then recall

The ghosts of Druids to their ring of stones,
And, when the white-robed choir
Their solemn round renew,

And from their golden harps melodious, pour

Aerial music down the listening vales,

(While thro' the streakless blue

Slow winds the full-orb'd moon,

And all the stars in living radiance bath'd,
Their cluster'd glories o'er the mountains roll,
Surveying in thy flood,

Keswic, their beamy locks,)

The dusky Fays of Borro's echoing cave

From their deep palace by the sound evok'd,

Shall on thy tawny sands

Their jetty tribute fling;

110

115

120

125

And from the marble grottoes of thy bed,
Shall oft emerge the ladies of the Lake,
To doff upon thy strand

The loose cerulean woof,

To braid with sedge their undulating hair,
In cars of shell to skim thy ruffling wave,
Or its translucent top

With pearly wrist to cleave;

And every Spirit of thy haunted banks,
Of rock, hill, cavern, waterfall, or wood,
Shall hold communion sweet

Around thy hallowed brim.

135

140

RYALTO.

BISHOP BRUNO.

"Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the third, then Emperour, being not far from a place which the Germanes call BEN STRUDEL, or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, "Ho, ho, Bishop Bruno, whether art thou travelling? but dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile." At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the Bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within a short time after, the Bishop feasting with the Emperor in a Castle belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table."

Heywood's Hierarchie of the blessed Angels.

Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight,
And he heard his heart beat loud with affright:
He dreamt he had rung the palace bell,

And the sound it gave was his passing knell.

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain,
He turned to sleep and he dreamt again :
He rung at the palace gate once more,

And Death was the porter that opened the door.