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That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare,
Each bears memento's of the fated pair.

One eve, when Autumn loaded ev'ry breeze
With the fall'n honours of the mourning trees,
The maiden waited at the accustomed bower,
And waited long beyond the appointed hour,
Yet Bateman came not;-o'er the woodland drear,
Howling portentous, did the winds career;
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods,
The fitful rains rush'd down in sudden floods.
The night was dark; as now-and-then, the gale
Paus'd for a moment,--Margaret listen'd, pale;
But thro' the covert to her anxious ear,
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near.
Strange fears now filled her breast,-she knew not why,
She sigh’d, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.
She hears a noise,—'tis he-he comes at last.

-Alas! 'twas but the gale which hurried past,
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound,
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;
'Tis Bateman's self,--He springs into her arms,
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms.
“ Yet why this silence?-I have waited long,
“ And the cold storm has yell’d the trees among,
“ And now thou’rt here my fears are fled—yet speak,

Why does the salt tear nioisten on thy cheek? “ Say, what is wrong?"--Now, through a parting cloud, The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud,

And Bateman's face was seen ;-'twas deadly white,
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight.
“ Oh, speak my love!" again the maid conjur’d,

Why is thy heart in sullen woe iinmur’d?”
He rais'd his head, and thrice essay'd to tell,
Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell;
When thus åt last reluctantly he broke
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke.
“Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance,
I, on these fields must cast my parting glance;
For three long years, by cruel fate's command,
“ I go to languish in a foreign land.
“ Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view,

Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true? “ Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, • Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, “ And on the silken couch of wealth reclin'd, “ Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?"

Oh! why, replies the maid, my faith thus prove,
Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love!
Hear me, just God! if, from my traitorous heart,
My Bateman's fond 'remembrance e'er shall part,
If, when he hail again his native shore,
He find his Margaret true to him no more,
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread,
Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjur'd bed,
And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps,
To find deserved death in yonder deeps!*

* This part of the Trent is commonly called “ The Clifton Deeps. Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew A golden ring, and broke it quick in two; One half she in her lovely bosom bides, The other, trembling, to her love confides. “ This bind the vow,” she said, “ this mystic charm, “ No future recantation can disarm, “ The rite vindictive does the fates involve, “ No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve."

She ceas'd. The death-bird gave a dismal cry,
The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by,
And once again the lady of the night,
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light.
Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay:
But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away:
Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart,
Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart.

When to the distant land the youth was sped,
A lonely life the moody maiden led.
Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk,
Still by the moonlight to her love would talk,
And fancy as she paced among the trees,
She heard his whispers in the dying breeze.
Thus two years glided on, in silent grief;
The third, her bosom own'd the kind relief;
Absence had cool'd her love,--the impoverish'd flame
Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came;
He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life,
And the weak maid became another's wife!

Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. Sure of her constancy, elate he came, The lovely partner of his soul to claim. Light was his heart, as up the well-known way He bent his steps—and all his thoughts were gay. Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, When on his ear the fatal news arose. Chill'd with amazement,-senseless with the blow, He stood a marble monument of woe. Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, And sought those scenes, (by memory ne'er forgot) Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 'Twas night-he sought the river's lonely shore, And trac'd agujn their former wanderings o'er. Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, And gaz'd intently on the stealing flood. Death in his mien, and madness in bis eye, He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by; Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his gravePrepar'd to plunge into the whelming wave. Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. He knelt.-Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. The willows wav'd, the stream it sweetly swept, The paly moonbeam on its surface slept,

And all was peace; he felt the general calm
O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm:
When casting far behind his streaming eye,
He saw the Grove,-in fancy saw her lie,
His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's* arms to rest,
And all the demon rose within his breast.
Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand,
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land,
Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank,
And in the calm deceitful current sank.

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound,
As in the stream he plung'd was heard around:
Then all was still,—the wave was rough no more,
The river swept as sweetly as before,
The willows wav'd, the moonbeam shone serene,
And peace returning brooded o'er the scene,

Now, see upon the perjur'd fair one hang
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang.
Full well she knew, repentant now too late,
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate.
But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast,
The offended God prolong'd her life unblest.
But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away,
And near, and nearer drew the dreaded day;
That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light,
And hurl its mother to the shades of night.

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband.

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