Of his footsteps' measured tread.

Nor word was spoken by one beholder,

Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his

shoulder,

And stretching his arms-as eath

Unriveted Aodh's bands,

As if the gyves had been a wreath
Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude

To the ancient statue's form ;
The Saint before his own image stood,
And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver
Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,
They lifted the spear and sword,
And levell'd their spears in rows.
But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt,
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,
Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not, He came and stood at the statue's foot, Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,

And the tottering image was dash'd Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd-
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crush'd as millstones crush the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,

And the pauses amidst his speech

Were as awful as the sound:

"Go back, ye wolves! to your dens" (he cried), "And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died,

That slaughter'd the flock of God.

Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood

The fragments of that avenging stone

That drank his heathen blood.

These are the spoils from Iona's sack,

The only spoils ye shall carry, back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword
Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,

And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gaël,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.

Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky,

For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand,

And look'd on them silently;

Safe from their hiding-places came

Orphans and mothers, child and dame:

But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given,

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,
And her spirit was in Heaven.

1824.

THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ;

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:

She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"

""Twas on Transylvania's Bannet, When the Crescent shone afar,

Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war—

In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade."

"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?"
Lady, no!--the gift were cruel,
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?".

"Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in gold!"

Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

"Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"-
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride.

1800.