The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinned,

And there was a gash across the brow,
The scalp was nearly skinned.

"Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream The maiden gave a spring

And from her fearful hiding-place

She fell into the ring.

Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom.

Insensible the maiden lay

Upon the hellish ground,

And still mysterious sounds were heard

At intervals around.

She woke

she half arose

and wild

She cast a horrid glare,

The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled,
And all was stillness there.

And through an awning in the rock

The moon it sweetly shone,

And showed a river in the cave

Which dismally did moan.

The stream was black, it sounded deep
As it rushed the rocks between,

It offered well, for madness fired
The breast of Gondoline.

She plunged in, the torrent moaned
With its accustomed sound,
And hollow peals of laughter loud
Again rebellowed round.

The maid was seen no more. But oft

Her ghost is known to glide,

At midnight's silent, solemn hour,
Along the ocean's side.

A BALLAD.

BE hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds,

Ye pelting rains, a little rest;

Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid;

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betrayed.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep'

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,

I cannot bear thy sobs to see,

Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,
And winds were piping o'er me loud,

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe,
Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO
HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS
TO EXECUTION.

SLEEP, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom,
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;
Sleep, baby mine, not long thou 'lt have a mother
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining?

Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head.

* Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine."

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy

weeping,

When soon an outcast on the world thou 'lt be?

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping

In her low grave of shame and infamy?

Sleep, baby mine

to-morrow I must leave thee,

And I would snatch an interval of rest:

Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou 'lt press a mother's breast.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

OH! yonder is the well known spot,
My dear, my long lost native home!
Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam!
Oh! I have travelled far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.

But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report,
It lured me from my native land;

It bade me rove

my

sole support

My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorned with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,

That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe returned, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wandered far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

A PASTORAL SONG.

COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;

Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,

And watch the early lark arise;

While nature, clad in vesture gay,

Hails the loved return of day.