And they barr'd with iron the windows so strong, And they put a new lock on the door;

And the parson he came, and he carefully strew'd With holy water the floor.

And her kindred came to see the dame,
And the clerk, and the singers beside;
And they did sing a penitent hymn,
And with her did abide.

And midnight came, and shortly the dame

Did give to her child the light;

And then she did pray, that they would stay,

And pass with her the night.

And she begg'd they would sing the penitent hymn,

And pray with all their might;

For sadly I fear, the fiend will be here,

And fetch me away this night.

And now without, a stormy rout,
With howls the guests did hear;

And the parson he pray'd, for he was afraid,
And the singers they quaver'd with fear.

And Margret pray'd the Almighty's aid,
For louder the tempest grew;
And every guest, his soul he blest,

As the tapers burned blue.

And the fair again, she pray'd of the men
To sing with all their might;

And they did sing, 'till the house did ring,
And louder they sung for affright.

But now their song, it dried on their tongue,

For sleep, it was seizing their sense;

And Marg❜ret screamed, and bid them not sleep, Or the fiends would bear her thence.

ON RURAL SOLITUDE

WHEN wandering, thoughtful, my stray steps at eve
(Releas'd from toil and careless of their way),
Have reach'd, unwillingly, some rural spot
Where quiet dwells in cluster'd cottages,
Fast by a wood, or on the river's marge,
I have sat down upon the shady stile

Half wearied with the long and lonesome walk,

And felt strange sadness steal upon the heart,

And sounds spake all of peacefulness and home;

The lazy mastiff, who my coming eyed,

Half balancing 'twixt fondness and distrust,
Recall'd some images, now half forgot,

Of the warm hearth at eve, when flocks are penn'd

And cattle hous'd, and every labour done.
And as the twilight's peaceful hour clos'd in,
The spiral smoke ascending from the thatch,
And the eve sparrow's last retiring chirp,
Have brought a busy train of hov'ring thoughts
To recollection, - rural offices

In younger days, and happier times perform'd.
And rural friends, now with their grave-stones carv'd,
And tales which wore away the winter's night

Yet fresh in memory. Then my thoughts assume

A different turn, and I am e'en at home.

That hut is mine; that cottage half-embower'd
With modest jessamine, and that sweet spot
Of garden-ground, where, rang'd in meet array,
Grow countless sweets, the wall-flower and the pink,
And the thick thyme-bush

even that is mine:

And that old mulberry that shades the court

Has been my joy from very childhood up.

SONG.

THE ROBIN RED-BREAST.

A VERY EARLY COMPOSITION.

WHEN the winter wind whistles around my lone cot,
And my holiday friends have my mansion forgot,
Though a lonely poor being, still do not I pine,
While my poor Robin Red-breast forsakes not my
shrine.

He comes with the morning, he hops on my arm,
For he knows 'tis too gentle to do him a harm:
And in gratitude ever beguiles with a lay

The soul-sick'ning thoughts of a bleak winter's day.

What, though he may leave me, when spring again smiles,

To waste the sweet summer in love's little wiles,

Yet will he remember his fosterer long,

And greet her each morning with one little song.

And when the rude blast shall again strip the trees,
And plenty no longer shall flie on the breeze;