And now the priest has join'd their hands,
The hours of love advance:
Rupert almost forgets to think
Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel

In blushing sweetness lay,

Like flowers, half-open'd by the dawn,
And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,

In youthful beauty glows,

Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast

His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both,
Nor let the rest be told,

If 'twere not for the horrid tale
It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him,
A death-cold carcass found;
He saw it not, but thought he felt
Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then return'd,

But found the phantom still;

In vain he slarunk, it clipp'd him round, With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips
A kiss of horror gave;

'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mould'ring grave!

Ill-fated Rupert!—wild and loud
Then cried he to his wife,
"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,
"My Isabel! my life!"

But Isabel had nothing seen,

She look'd around in vain;

And much she mourn'd the mad conceit That rack'd her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible

These words to Rupert came:

(Oh God! while he did hear the words What terror shook his frame!)

"Husband, husband, I've the ring "Thou gav'st to-day to me; "And thou'rt to me forever wed, "As I am wed to thee!"

And all the night the demon lay
Cold-chilling by his side,

And strain'd him with such deadly grasp,
He thought he should have died.

But when the dawn of day was near,
The horrid phantom fled,

And left th' affrighted youth to weep
By Isabel in bed.

And all that day a gloomy cloud

Was seen on Rupert's brows; Fair Isabel was likewise sad,

But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought
Of coming night with fear:
Alas, that he should dread to view

The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,
Again their couch they press'd;
Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,
And look'd for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again
The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strain'd him in its grasp,
With howl exulting cried :-

"Husband, husband, I've the ring, "The ring thou gav'st to me; "And thou'rt to me forever wed, "As I am wed to thee!"

In agony of wild despair,

He started from the bed; And thus to his bewilder'd wife The trembling Rupert said:

"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see

"A shape of horrors here, "That strains me to its deadly kiss,

"And keeps me from my dear?"

"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I "No shape of horrors see; "And much I mourn the phantasy "That keeps my dear from me."

TO

OF SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Μαργαριται δηλούσι δακρύων ῥσον.

Ap. NICEPHOR. in Oneirocrition

Pur off the vestal veil, nor, oh!
Let weeping angels view it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow,
And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;

The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF

OF

A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK. HERE is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To write my name forever there!

ΤΟ

MRS. BL

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

THEY say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you,) Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.

Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line

Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again.
But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
That all who read them sigh'd for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
Would tremble for her spotless book.
For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she fear'd lest, mantling o'er,

Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night,
The urchin let that goblet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away;
Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,

The leaves grew darker every day.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,

And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy stains,

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related.

TO

CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

CONCEAL'D within the shady wood

A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food,

The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise,

The mother roams, astray and weeping; Far from the weak appealing cries

Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,

And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no 'tis gone-the storms are keen, The infant may be chill'd to death!

Perhaps, ev'n now, in darkness shrouded,

His little eyes lie cold and still ;And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,
When, fearful ev'n thy hand to touch,
I mutely ask'd those eyes to tell

If parting pain'd thee half so much :

I thought,—and, oh; forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught

To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,

Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind,

One feeling which I call'd my own.

Oh blest! though out in fancy blest,
How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numb'ring,

I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumb'ring.

Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,

Haply, it yet a throb may giveYet, no-perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it; Say, dearest-does the feeling live?

ΤΟ

CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DA

WHEN midnight came to close the year,

We sigh'd to think it thus should take The hours it gave us-hours as dear

As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,-every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh

Which came a new year's light to she That smile we caught from eye to eye

Told us, those moments were not fled Oh, no,-we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide;
And still thus may the passing sigh
We give to hours, that vanish o'er ts
Be follow'd by the smiling eye,

That Hope shall shed on scenes befor

то

1801

To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her prompt magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behin
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear :-
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and
By passion led, by youth beguiled,
Can proudly still aspire to be

All that may yet win smiles from thee
If thus to live in every part
Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, Mary,-oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
Though, erring, it too oft betray
Ev'n more than Love should dare to s
In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,