VIEWLESS Essence, thin and bare,
Well-nigh melted into air;

Still with fondness hovering near
The earthly form thou once didst wear;

Pause upon thy pinion's flight,
Be thy course to left or right;
Be thou doomed to soar or sink,
Pause upon the awful brink.

To avenge the deed expelling
Thee untimely from thy dwelling,
Mystic force thou shalt retain
O'er the blood and o'er the brain.

When the form thou shalt espy That darkened on thy closing eye; When the footstep thou shalt hear That thrilled upon thy dying ear;

Then strange sympathies shall wake,
The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall quake;
The wounds renew their clottered flood,
And every drop cry blood for blood.

IV

SONG OF THE GLEE-MAIDEN

A fever fit, and then a chill; And then an end of human ill: For thou art dead.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR

These verses, written in 1828, were published in The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. Ther accompanied an engraving from a painting by Cooper, suggested by the incident.

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Careered along the lea;

The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engrossed their joys and woes.
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose

By fountain or by stream;
And oft when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear; Yon thicket holds the harbored deer, The signs the hunters know: With eyes of flame and quivering ears The brake sagacious Keeldar nears; and rears; The restless palfrey paws The archer strings his bow.

The game 's afoot! — Halloo! Halloo! Hunter and horse and hound pursue;But woe the shaft that erring flew

That e'er it left the string! And ill betide the faithless yew! The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true Has drenched the gray-goose wing.

The noble hound - he dies, he dies; Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes; Stiff on the bloody heath he lies

Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound, But Keeldar sleeps forever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,

Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death - but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder mixed with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favorite bending low
In speechless grief recline;

Can think he hears the senseless clay
In unreproachful accents say,
The hand that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine?

And if it be, the shaft be blessed
Which sure some erring aim addressed,
Since in your service prized, caressed,
I in your service die;
And you may have a fleeter hound
To match the dun-deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I.'

And to his last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance, for when he stood
Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud
And fell amid the fray,
E'en with his dying voice he cried,
Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been spied -
I had not died to-day!'

Remembrance of the erring bow
Long since had joined the tides which

flow,

Conveying human bliss and woe

Down dark oblivion's river; But Art can Time's stern doom arrest And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, And, in her Cooper's colors drest, The scene shall live forever.

THE SECRET TRIBUNAL From Anne of Geierstein, published in 1829.

From Chapter xx. 'Philipson could perceive that the lights proceeded from many torches, borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their features. They appeared anxiously engaged in measuring off a portion of the apartment; and, while occupied in that employment, they sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes more rude than Philipson could well understand, but which may be imitated thus:'

MEASURERS of good and evil,

Bring the square, the line, the level, Rear the altar, dig the trench,

Blood both stone and ditch shall drench.
Cubits six, from end to end,
Must the fatal bench extend;
Cubits six, from side to side,
Judge and culprit must divide.
On the east the Court assembles,
On the west the Accused trembles:
Answer, brethren, all and one,
Is the ritual rightly done?

On life and soul, on blood and bone,
One for all, and all for one,
We warrant this is rightly done.

How wears the night? Doth morning shine

In early radiance on the Rhine ?
What music floats upon his tide?
Do birds the tardy morning chide?
Brethren, look out from hill and height,
And answer true, how wears the night?

The night is old; on Rhine's broad breast
Glance drowsy stars which long to rest.

No beams are twinkling in the east.
There is a voice upon the flood,
The stern still call of blood for blood;
'Tis time we listen the behest.

Up, then, up! When day's at rest,

"Tis time that such as we are watchers;

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV.
GEORGE SCOTT

George Scott was the son of Hugh Scott of Harden. He died at Kentisbeare, in Devonshire, where he was rector of the church, in 1830. The verses are on his tomb.

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. Art thou a parent? Reverence this bier, The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start, With opening talents and a generous heart; Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine

own?

Lo! here their end- - a monumental stone. But let submission tame each sorrowing thought,

Heaven crowned its champion ere the fight was fought.

'THE SUN UPON THE LAKE' THE sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care

From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair

Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame, on turret high

Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart;

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's rattle,

They call us to sport, and they call us to battle;

And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats of a stranger,

While our comrades in pastime are comrades in danger.

If there's mirth in our house, 't is our neighbor that shares it

If peril approach, 't is our neighbor that dares it;

And when we lead off to the pipe and the tabor,

The fair hand we press is the hand of a neighbor.

Then close your ranks, comrades, the bands that combine them,

Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, joined to entwine them;

And we'll laugh at the threats of each in

solent stranger, While our comrades in sport are our comrades in danger.

III

'ADMIRE NOT THAT I GAINED THE PRIZE'

ADMIRE not that I gained the prize

From all the village crew;
How could I fail with hand or eyes
When heart and faith were true?

And when in floods of rosy wine

My comrades drowned their cares,
I thought but that thy heart was mine,
My own
leapt light as theirs.

My brief delay then do not blame,
Nor deem your swain untrue;

WHEN the tempest 's at the loudest
On its gale the eagle rides;
When the ocean rolls the proudest
Through the foam the sea-bird glides -
All the rage of wind and sea
Is subdued by constancy.

Gnawing want and sickness pining,
All the ills that men endure,
Each their various pangs combining,
Constancy can find a cure
Pain and Fear and Poverty
Are subdued by constancy.

Bar me from each wonted pleasure,
Make me abject, mean, and
poor,
Heap on insults without measure,
Chain me to a dungeon floor -
I'll be happy, rich, and free,
If endowed with constancy.

There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,

If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,

Will ery hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Ďundee.

Come fill up my cup, etc.

There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,

At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, etc.

'Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks

Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the

fox;

And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,

You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me !"

Come fill up my cup, etc.