There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that every bosom feels its own,-
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side,

Who, "long as Memory holds her seat," shall view
That speechless, more than spoken, last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith,
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swelled;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England's chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, -
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real wo!
Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies!
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love!
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
The peace that angels lend to human-kind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal
A loyalty that touches all the best

And loftiest principles of England's breast!
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life-thy form portray;
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
"Tis not in language or expressive arts

To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts!

LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

Br strangers left upon a lonely shore,

Unknown, unhonored, was the friendless dead; For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied headAll from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve

Launch on that water by the witches' tower, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinished road,
To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate,

And render back thy being's heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom - and the hand

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown? He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

16

REULLURA.*

STAR of the morn and eve,

Reullura shone like thee,

And well for her might Aodh grieve,
The dark-attired Culdee.

Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees
Were Albyn's earliest priests of God,
Ere yet an island of her seas

By foot of Saxon monk was trod,
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
Were barred from wedlock's holy tie.
'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,

In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star,

Was the partner of his bower.

But, Aodh, the roof lies low,

And the thistle-down waves bleaching,

And the bat flits to and fro

Where the Gaël once heard thy preaching;

And fallen is each columned aisle

Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 'Twas near that temple's goodly pile

That honored of men they dwelt ; For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted.

Alas, with what visions of awe

Her soul in that hour was giftedWhen pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone

Reallura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star."

By the statue of an aged Saint!

Fair sculptured was the stone
It bore a crucifix;

Fame said it once had graced
A Christian temple, which the Picts
In the Britons' land laid waste:
The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught,
Had hither the holy relic brought.

Reullura eyed the statue's face,

And cried, "It is, he shall come,

Even he, in this very place,

To avenge my martyrdom.

"For, wo to the Gaël people!

Ulvfagre is on the main,

And Iona shall look from tower and steeple

On the coming ships of the Dane;

And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks

With the spoiler's grasp entwine?

No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine.

Baffled by me shall the Dane return,

And here shall his torch in the temple burn,
Until that holy man shall plough

The waves from Innisfail.

His sail is on the deep e'en now,

And swells to the southern gale."

"Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,"

The holy Aodh said,

"That the Saint whose form we stand beside

Has for ages slept with the dead?"

"He liveth, he liveth," she said again,

"For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men.

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends

That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth;
The oak is decayed with age on earth,
Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him;

And his parents remember the day of dread
When the sun on the cross looked dim,
And the graves gave up their dead.
Yet preaching from clime to clime,

He hath roamed the earth for ages,
And hither he shall come in time

When the wrath of the heathen rages,
In time a remnant from the sword –
Ah! but a remnant to deliver;

Yet, blest be the name of the Lord!

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. Lochlin, appalled, shall put up her steel, And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel; Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gaël, And the Lord will instruct thy lips

To preach in Innisfail."+

The sun, now about to set,
Was burning o'er Tirce,
And no gathering cry rose yet

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea,
Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip

Their oars beneath the sun,

And the phantom of many a Danish ship,

Where ship there yet was none.

And the shield of alarm was dumb,

Nor did their warning till midnight come,
When watch-fires burst from across the main

From Rona, and Uist, and Skye

To tell that the ships of the Dane
And the red-haired slayers were nigh.