Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and pray'd That saved she might be ;

And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land:
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Look'd soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks they gored her sides
Like the horns of an angry

bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board ;
Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roar'd.

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lash'd close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed
On the billows fall and rise.

THE IRISH WIFE.

117

THE IRISH WIFE.

THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE.

I WOULD not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land;

I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand;

For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life

An outlaw, but I'm near her!-to love till death my Irish wife!

Oh! what would be this home of mine-a ruin'd hermit-haunted place—

But for the light that nightly shines upon its walls from Kathleen's face ?

What comfort in a mine of gold, what pleasure in a royal life,

If the heart within lay dead and cold-if I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns, I knew my king abhorred her race,

Who never bent before their clans, must bow before their ladies' grace.

Take all my forfeited domain: I cannot wage, with kinsmen, strife;

Take knightly gear and noble name, but I will keep my Irish wife!

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes-my heaven by day, my stars by night—

And twin-like truth and fondness lie within her swelling bosom white,

My Irish wife has golden hair-Apollo's harp had once such strings;

Apollo's self might pause to hear her bird-like carol when she sings!

I would not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land,

I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand!

For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life;

In death I would be near her, and rise beside my Irish wife!

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

JOHN HOME.

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flock-a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord,
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon which rose last night, round as my shiel.',
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,

With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd

The road he took, then hasten'd to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.

We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd

THE BATTLE OF MORG RTEN.

The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,

I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:-
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE wine month shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime
Than the vintage music rung-

A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long-

But amidst his Alp domains,

The herdsman's arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock-defile,

And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rang the while.

119

But on the misty height

Where the mountain people stood
There was stillness as of night,

When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear-
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound these columns bright
Between the lake and wood,

But they looked not to the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown,
Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong!

They came like lauwine hurled

From Alp to Alp in play,

When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,

And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!

The field-but not of sheaves:
Proud crests and pennons lay,

Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves
In the autumn tempest's way.