Hears upon turret-roof and wall,
By fits the plashing rain-drops fall;
Lists to the breeze's boding sound,

And wraps his shaggy mantle round."

The Baliol alluded to in these lines, is Bernard de Baliol, the founder of the once almost impregnable fortress, called after him, Bernard, now Barnard Castle. This Bernard de Baliol was the ancestor of the unfortunate and short-lived dynasty, which under the patronage of our English Edwards, the First and Third, possessed the Scottish throne. Baliol's Tower, still scarcely touched by the hand of the great spoiler, Time, is a round tower of great size and height, situated at the western extremity of the once magnificent castle to which it belongs; and commanding a rich and varied landscape of indescribable beauty.

"What prospects from his watch-tower high,

Gleam gradual on the warder's eye!

Far sweeping to the east, he sees,

Down his deep woods, the course of Tees,
And tracks his wanderings by the steam

Of summer-vapours from the stream :
And ere he pace his destin'd hour,
By ancient Barnard's dungeon-tower,
These silver mists shall melt away,

And dew the woods with glittering spray."

The ancient towers of Barnard Castle are not, however, associated only with the memory of the days of Baliol and Bruce, and of our early English Edwards. They also recal to the mind of the spectator the dark period of Cromwell's usurpation, at which time, this castle, like many other fortresses during the civil war, suffered much injury.

These beautiful lines afford a graphic description of the present condition of Barnard Castle. Its ruins, of which Baliol's Tower, already mentioned, constitutes the most important part, are spread over a wide extent of ground; portions of them being incorporated with the neighbouring houses, and other modern buildings. The position of the fortress is imposing in the extreme; and the scenes of smiling and peaceful beauty upon which, from its proud eminence it looks down, can scarcely fail to suggest to the mind of the spectator, a comparison, which must excite grateful feelings, between the past stormy periods of England's history, and the present days of freedom and peace.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A MOTHER ON THE DEATH OF HER DAUGHTER.

WHY doth the Rose-bud fade? What early blight

Hath fallen on its fair and gentle head?

Why did it sicken in the morning light,

And join the early dead?

Why doth the Dew-drop, with a rainbow's hue
Reflected in its bosom, melt away?

Sinking at once from the enraptured view,

As thoughts too bright to stay.

*

Why doth the Singing-bird, of sweetest strain,

Ere summer-glories in full radiance bloom,

Leave our green woods, for distant lands again,

Till spring once more shall come?

• The Nightingale.

Why fade the Young and Beautiful, on whom
Our hearts cast anchor with a fervent hold?
Were they not all too lovely for the tomb?
That couch so low and cold?

Why!-Oh! ye earthly ones, well may your love
Thus fondly call, and echoes answer Why?-
Ask Him who call'd them in their Youth above,
Who bade your fair ones die.

Why did she die? Is there no joy in this,
That all her life was one of Hope and Spring,
That not a cloud pass'd o'er her sky of bliss
Ere her young soul took wing?

That not a memory in thine heart finds rest,
Of chill'd affections, of a love estranged;
Time's iron hand sear'd not the gentle breast,
To thee and thine unchanged.

It might have been, that she had lived to bear
The Woman's lot which is upon thee now;
Long watchful nights to pass in grief and care,
Such as she ne'er can know.

Thy Rose is gather'd; but a Father's hand
Took to Himself, thy fairest, sweetest flower,
To bloom for ever in the Better Land,
To fade and die no more.

Hush'd be our voice; for thou must mourn and weep;
Vainly doth human love, her balm apply;

It cannot wake her from her last, long sleep,—
Look then beyond the sky.

May, 1849.

There is compassion,-He, who raised the dead,
Who dried the mother's tears, shall comfort thee:
Lift
up thine eyes from thy child's narrow bed,
To her Eternity!

H. R. G.