A JEWISH FAMILY.

IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE.)

GENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings

Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things

To pencil dear and pen,

Thou would'st forego the neighbouring Rhine,
And all his majesty -

A studious forehead to incline
O'er this poor family.

The mother-her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came

To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;
An image, too, of the sweet boy,

Thy inspirations give

Of playfulness, and love, and joy,
Predestined here to live.

Downcast, or shooting glances far,

How beautiful his eyes,

That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish child,
That exquisite Saint John.

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow,
The smooth transparent skin,
Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within;
The grace of parting infancy

By blushes yet untamed;
Age faithful to the mother's knee,
Nor of her arms ashamed.

Two lovely sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat
The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured

Upon them not forlorn,
Though of a lineage once abhorred,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn.

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite

Of poverty and wrong, Doth here preserve a living light, From Hebrew fountains sprung; That gives this ragged group to cast Around the dell a gleam Of Palestine, of glory past, And proud Jerusalem!

'WEAK is the will of man, his judgment blind;
'Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays;
'Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,
'A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!'
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power.
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. THERE was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;

The grass is bright with rain-drops; -on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods and distant waters roar;

Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ :
My old remembrances went from me wholly;

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!

But, as it sometime chanceth, from the might

Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low,
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, m

could name.

I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me -
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

THE THORN.

"THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and gray.

Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotty joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop :

Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;

And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This Pond, and beauteous Hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits between the Heap
So like an infant's grave in size,
And that same Pond of which I spoke,
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;
And, there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor Woman go?

And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And wherefore does she cry? —
Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?

"I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows:
But would you gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes:
The hillock like an infant's grave,
The Pond-and Thorn so old and gray;
Pass by her door—'t is seldom shut-
And, if you see her in her hut-
Then to the spot away!

I never heard of such as dare

Approach the spot when she is there.

But wherefore to the mountain-top

Can this unhappy Woman go,

Whatever star is in the skies,

Whatever wind may blow?"

"Tis known, that twenty years are past
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with a maiden's true good will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,

While friends and kindred all approved
Of hin whom tenderly she loved.

And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;

And, with this other Maid, to church
L'athinking Stephen went

Poor Martha on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;

A Fire was kindled in her breast,
Which might not burn itself to rest.
They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go,
And there was often seen.
Alas! her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain;

She was with child, and she was mad:
Yet often she was sober sad
From her exceeding pain.

O guilty Father-would that death

Had saved him from that breach of faith!

Sad case for such a brain to hold
Camunion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!

Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn Infant wrought
Ant its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:

And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

More know I not, I wish I did,
And it should all be told to you;
For what became of this poor Child
No Mortal ever knew;

Nay-if a Child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell;
And if it was born alive or dead,
Fir less could this with proof be said;
But some remember well,

That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peas,
"T was worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard path to seek:

For many a time and oft were heard
Cries coming from the mountain-head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:

I cannot think, whate'er they say,
They had to do with Martha Ray.

But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak,

I will be sworn is true.

For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height;
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.

'T was mist and rain, and storm and rain;
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in faith, it was
A wind full ten times over.

I looked around, I thought I saw

A jutting crag, and off I ran,
Head-foremost through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain;
And, as I am a man,

Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.

I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face!-it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make
The waters of the Pond to shake,

As all the country know,

She shudders, and you hear her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!"

"But what's the Thorn? and what the Pond?
And what the Hill of moss to her?
And what the creeping breeze that comes
The little Pond to stir?"

"I cannot tell; but some will say

She hanged her Baby on the tree;
Some say she drowned it in the Pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,

The little babe was buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

I've heard, the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 't is plain
The baby looks at you again.

And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous Hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass-it shook upon the ground!
Yet all do still aver

The little Babe is buried there,
Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.

I cannot tell how this may be;
But plain it is, the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive
To drag it to the ground;

And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turned aside towards a Vassal's door,
And "Bring another horse!" he cried aloud.

"Another horse!"-That shout the Vassal heard
And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair; But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died:
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn,
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy:
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Til. now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.