In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale—

When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-
He's gone! she cry'd, and I shall see
That angel face no more!

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

'Beat high against my side—

From her white arm down sunk her head

She, shiver'd, sigh'd, and died.

RODOLPHO AND MATILDA.

[KEATE.]

WHEN o'er the Alpine heights chill Winter spreads His hoary mantle; when the thick'ning air Descends in feather'd flakes; each prospect now

How wild, how shapeless! Streams which us❜d to flow

With hasty currents, lazy creep, beneath

Th' incumbent snow. The tall fir's loaded branch
Waves like the ostrich plume: the fleecy show'r
Whirl'd in its falling, forms unreal hills
And faithless levels. Cautious be his steps,
Who thro' these regions journeys while they wear
Their cold and dreary aspect, lest from above
The snowy piles o'erwhelm him: frequent now
From parts remote their sullen sound is heard,
Striking the startled ear: by eddying winds
Or agitating sounds, the loosen'd snow
First mov'd, augmenting slides, then nodding o'er
The headlong steep, plunges in air, and rolls
With one vast length of ruin to the vale――
Aghast beneath it the pale traveller sees
The falling promontory-sees-and dies!-

'Midst its sad victims, from the house of death Let me recal one true, one wretched pair It sunk untimely to the tomb. The tale I've heard from shepherds, as they pointed out The spot their story noted, and have dropt For hapless love a sympathising tear.

In a lone vale, wash'd by th' impetuous Arve, Beneath the shade its tallest mountain threw,

Matilda dwelt, the sole remaining hope

Of old Alberto, whose paternal farm

Cover'd with flocks and herds spread wide around.
Hers was each blushing charm which youth may boast
When Nature grows profuse; hers too each pow'r,
Attended with each studious wish to please.

Fair as the bloom of May, and mildly sweet
As the soft gales that with their vernal wings
Fan the first op'ning flow'rs. Each neighbouring swain
Had sigh'd and languish'd, on the tender bark
Inscrib'd the fair one's name, or to her ear
Whisper'd his love,-in vain!-None, none were heard,
Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form
Had won her to his favour: on his brow

Sat native comeliness, and manly fire

O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her

His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each thought

That delicacy knows, far more refin'd

Than suits the happy! Much he had convers❜d
With rev'rend age, and learn'd from thence to prize,
A rural life, learn'd to prefer the peace

Of his own woods, to the discordant din

Of populous cities. What but fate could bar
Their wishes? What indeed! The morn was fix'd
To seal their plighted faith, the bridegroom rose

With all a bridegroom's transport, call'd his friends
To join the jocund train, and hasten forth.

To greet th' expecting maid: still as he went
Anticipating Fancy's magic hand,

The thousand raptures drew which youthful breasts
Feel at approaching bliss. Alas! how quick
Treads wo in pleasure's footsteps! Now pursue
The fated youth, tho' words are sure too weak
To speak his horror, when nor well-known farm,
Nor wonted flocks he saw, but in their place
A pond'rous mound of snow. At early dawn
From the near Alp the cumb'rous ruin fell,
And crush'd Alberto's roof. To lend their aid
Th' assembled villagers were met, and now
From out the mass had brought once more to light
'Th' ill-starr'd Matilda! lovely still! for still

A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd

Shew'd but as sleep.

Her bridal ornaments,

eye

Around her head she wore
deck'd as she was

To wait the nuptial. Ah! deck'd in vain!
The grave thy marriage bed!

On the sad scene

Rodolpho gazes, stands awhile aghast,

The semblance of despair; his swelling breast, Torn by conflicting passions, from his tongue Utt'rance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes On all around, as he would ask if e'er

Grief such as his were known; then o'er the dead
A moment pausing, on her lips imprints

A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand
With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds
Calls on Matilda's name. With that last word
The struggling soul a passage finds, and down
He sinks in death pale as the ambient snow.

SIR JAMES THE ROSS:

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD.

[BRUCE.]

Or all the Scotish northern chiefs
Of high and mighty name,
The bravest was Sir James the Ross,
A knight of meikle fame.

His growth was like a youthful oak,
That crowns the mountain's brow;

And, waving o'er his shoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flew.