The younger maids with Isabel Disported through the bowers,

And deck'd her robe, and crown'd her head
With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire,
Within the castle walls,
Sat listening to the choral strains

That echo'd through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repair'd
Unto a spacious court,

To strike the bounding tennis-ball
In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger had
The wedding-ring so bright,
Which was to grace the lily hand
Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem,
Or lose it in the play,
He look'd around the court, to see
Where he the ring might lay.

Now in the court a statue stood,
Which there full long had been;
It was a heathen goddess, or
Perhaps a heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then

He tried the ring to fit;
And, thinking it was safest there,
Thereon he fasten'd it.

And now the tennis sports went on,
Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announced to them
Their dinner in the hall.

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring Unto the statue went;

But, oh! how was he shock'd to find The marble finger bent !

The hand was closed upon the ring
With firm and mighty clasp;

In vain he tried, and tried, and tried,
He could not loose the grasp!

How sore surprised was Rupert's mind,-
As well his mind might be ;
"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again,
When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring;

And much he wonder'd what could mean
So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court
He went without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand,

And force the ring away!

But mark a stranger wonder still-
The ring was there no more;
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd,
And open as before!

He search'd the base, and all the court,

And nothing could he find, But to the castle did return

With sore bewilder'd mind.

Within he found them all in mirth,
The night in dancing flew ;
The youth another ring procured,

And none the adventure knew.

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 Phœbus, when he bends to cast
His beams upon a rose!

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

But for the horrid, horrid tale

It yet has to unfold!

Soon Rupert 'twixt his bride and him,
A death-cold carcase 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 shrunk, it clipp'd him round,
With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips

A kiss of horror gave;

"T was like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert! wild and loud
Thou criedst to thy 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 terrors shook his frame !)

"Husband! husband! I've the ring Thou gavest to-day to me; And thou 'rt to me for ever 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 the affrighted youth to weep By Isabel in bed.

All, 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:
Ah! that he must with terror 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 gavest to me;
And thou 'rt to me for ever 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 the deadly kiss,
And keeps me from my dear?"
"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I
No shape of horror see;
And much I mourn the phantasy
That keeps my dear from me!"

This night, just like the night before,
In terrors pass'd away,

Nor did the demon vanish thence
Before the dawn of day.

Says Rupert then, "My Isabel,
Dear partner of my woe,
To Father Austin's holy cave
This instant will I go."

Now Austin was a reverend man,

Who acted wondrous maint,
ountry round believed
saint!

Whom all

A devil

To Father Austin's holy cave

Then Rupert went full straight, And told him all, and ask'd him how To remedy his fate.

The father heard the youth, and then Retired awhile to pray;

And, having pray'd for half an hour, Return'd, and thus did say:

"There is a place where four roads meet, Which I will tell to thee;

Be there this eve, at fall of night,
And list what thou shalt see.

Thou 'It see a group of figures pass

In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.

And one that's high above the rest,

Terrific towering o'er,

Will make thee know him at a glance,
So I need say no more.

To him from me these tablets give,
They 'll soon be understood;
Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,
I've scrawl'd them with my blood!"

The night-fall came, and Rupert all
In pale amazement went

To where the cross-roads met, and he
Was by the father sent.

And lo! a group of figures came

In strange disorder'd crowd,
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads,
With noises strange and loud.

And as the gloomy train advanced,
Rupert beheld from far

A female form of wanton mien
Seated upon a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon
The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,
For hers was just the same.

Behind her walk'd a hideous form,
With eye-balls flashing death;
Whene'er he breath'd, a sulphur'd smoke
Came burning in his breath!

He seem'd the first of all the crowd
Terrific towering o'er;

"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he,
And I need ask no more."

And, giving it unto the youth, With eyes that breath'd of hell, She said in that tremendous voice Which he remember'd well:

"In Austin's name take back the ring,
The ring thou gavest to me;
And thou 'rt to me no longer wed,
Nor longer I to thee."

He took the ring, the rabble pass'd,

He home return'd again;

His wife was then the happiest fair, The happiest he of men.

SONG.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF MRS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND.

Or all my happiest hours of joy,

And even I have had my measure,
When hearts were full and every eye
Has kindled with the beams of pleasure!

Such hours as this I ne'er was given,

So dear to friendship, so dear to blisses; Young Love himself looks down from heaven, To smile on such a day as this is!

Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever!
And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

Oh! banish every thought to-night,

Which could disturb our souls' communion' Abandon'd thus to dear delight,

We'll e'en for once forget the Union!

On that let statesmen try their powers,
And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for;

The union of the soul be ours,

And every union else we sigh for!

'Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve, Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

In every eye around I mark

The feelings of the heart o'erflowing, From every soul I catch the spark

Of sympathy in friendship glowing!

Oh! could such moments ever fly:

Oh! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em ;
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,
And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.

But oh! my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

For me, whate'er my span of years,
Whatever sun may light my roving;

Whether I waste my life in tears,

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving!

This day shall come with aspect kind,
Wherever Fate may cast your rover;
He'll think of those he left behind,

And drink a health to bliss that's over!

Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve,
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;
And may the birth of her we love
Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH.

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather fancy's brilliant flowers ?
And is it not more sweet than this
To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;
With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,
And makes the flowers of fancy brighter!
The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder If indolence or syren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

"T will tell thee that the winged day Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour; That life and time shall fade away,

While heaven and virtue bloom for ever!

MARK those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ?
The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze?
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,
The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twined with heavenly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?
Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire?
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre?
Do these descend with all that tide of fame
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name?

SONG.'

MARY, I believed thee true,

And I was blest in thus believing; But now I mourn that e'er I knew

A girl so fair and so deceiving!

Few have ever loved like me,

Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e'er deceived like thee,Alas! deceived me too severely!

Fare thee well! yet think awhile

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee; Who now would rather trust that smile,

And die with thee, than live without thee! Fare thee well! I'll think of thee,

Thou leavest me many a bitter token ;
For see, distracting woman! see,

My peace is gone, my heart is broken!
Fare thee well!

SONG.

WHY does azure deck the sky?
"T is to be like thy eyes of blue;
Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blush's hue.
All that's fair, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!
Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright? That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why are Nature's beauties felt ?

Oh! 't is thine in her we see!
Why has music power to melt?
Oh! because it speaks like thee.

All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A.'
THOUGH long at school and college, dozing
On books of rhyme and books of prosing,
And copying from their moral pages
Fine recipes for forming sages;

Though long with those divines at school,
Who think to make us good by rule;
Who, in methodic forms advancing,
Teaching morality like dancing,

Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake,
What steps we are through life to take:
Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd,
And so much midnight oil destroy'd,
I must confess, my searches past,
I only learn'd to doubt at last.

I find the doctors and the sages
Have differ'd in all climes and ages,
And two in fifty scarce agree
On what is pure morality!

"T is like the rainbow's shifting zone,
And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise,
As modes of being great and wise,
That we should cease to own or know
The luxuries that from feeling flow.

"Reason alone must claim direction,
And Apathy's the soul's perfection.
Like a dull lake the heart must lie;
Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh,
Though heaven the breeze, the breath supplied,
Must curl the wave or swell the tide !"

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan
To form his philosophic man;

Such were the modes he taught mankind
To weed the garden of the mind;
They tore away some weeds, 't is true,
But all the flowers were ravish'd too!

Now listen to the wily strains,
Which, on Cyrené's sandy plains,

When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone,
Usurp'd the philosophic throne;
Hear what the courtly sage's tongue
To his surrounding pupils sung:

"Pleasure's the only noble end

To which all human powers should tend,
And Virtue gives her heavenly lore,
But to make Pleasure please us more!
Wisdom and she were both design'd
To make the senses more refined,
That man might revel, free from cloying,
Then most a sage, when most enjoying!"

1 The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed, is the author of some esteemed works, and was Mr. Little's most particular friend. I have heard Mr. Little very frequently speak of him as one in whom "the elements were so mixed," that neither in his head nor heart had nature left any

2 Aristippus.