BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS.

GONDOLINE

A BALLAD.

The night it was still, and the moon it shone Serenely on the sea, And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock They murmur'd pleasantly,

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, A maiden full fair to the sight; Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, And turn'd it to deadly white.

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear It fill'd her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand's dying sigh.

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth Of all our good king's men, And he was gone to the Holy Land To fight the Saracen.

And many a month had pass'd away, And many a rolling year, But nothing the maid from Palestine Could of her lover hear.

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce The ocean's misty face; Full oft she thought her lover's bark She on the wave could trace.

And every night she placed a light In the high rock's lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land, Should the murky tempest lower.

But now despair had seized her breast, And sunken in her eye; "Oh tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace will die."

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, The curlew scream'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Much boding on her love.

Yet still she kept her lonely way, And this was all her cry. "Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace shall die."

And now she came to a horrible rift All in the rock's hard side, A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread The cavern yawning wide.

And pendant from its dismal top The deadly nightshade hung; The hemlock and the aconite Across the mouth was flung.

And all within was dark and drear, And all without was calm; Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld By some deep-working charm.

And as she enter'd the cavern wide, The moonbeam gleamed pale, And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, It clung by its slimy tail.

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, She trod on a bloated toad; Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, She kept upon her road.

And now upon her frozen ear Mysterious sounds arose; So, on the mountain's piny top The blustering north wind blows.

Then furious peals of laughter loud Were heard with thundering sound, Till they died away in soft decay, Low whispering o'er the ground.

Yet still the maiden onward went, The charm yet onward led, Though each big glaring ball of sight Seem'd bursting from her head.

But now a pale blue light she saw, It from a distance came; She follow'd, till upon her sight Burst full a flood of flame.

She stood appall'd; yet still the charm Upheld her sinking soul; Yet each bent knee the other smote, And each wild eye did roll.

And such a sight as she saw there No mortal saw before, And such a sight as she saw there No mortal shall see more.

A burning cauldron stood in the midst, The flame was fierce and high, And all the cave so wide and long Was plainly seen thereby.

And round about the cauldron stout Twelve withered witches stood; Their waists were bound with living snakes, And their hair was stiff with blood.

Their hands were gory too; and red And fiercely flamed their eyes: And they were muttering indistinct Their hellish mysteries.

And suddenly they join'd their hands, And utter'd a joyous cry, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily.

And now they stopp'd; and each prepared To tell what she had done, Since last the lady of the night Her waning course had run.

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, Thick weeds her face did veil, And she lean'd fearful forwarder, To hear the dreadful tale.

The first arose: She said she'd seen Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, And a jovial storm had brew'd.

She'd called around the winged winds, And raised a devilish rout; And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard Full fifteen leagues about.

She said there was a little bark Upon the roaring wave, And there was a woman there who'd been To see her husband's grave.

And she had got a child in her arms, It was her only child, And oft its little infant pranks Her heavy heart beguiled.

And there was too in that same bark A father and his son: The lad was sickly, and the sire Was old and woe-begone.

And when the tempest waxed strong, And the bark could no more it 'bide, She said it was jovial fun to hear How the poor devils cried.

The mother clasp'd her orphan child Unto her breast and wept; And sweetly folded in her arms The careless baby slept.

And she told how, in the shape of the wind, As manfully it roar'd, She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, And threw it overboard.

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 'Twas a glorious sight to see; The crew could scarcely hold her down From jumping in the sea.

The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand, And it was soft and fair: It must have been a lovely child, To have had such lovely hair.

And she said the father in his arms He held his sickly son, And his dying throes they fast arose, His pains were nearly done.

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, And his face grew deadly blue; And the father he tore his thin gray hair, And kiss'd the livid hue.

And then she told how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fill'd away: And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, And some did vow and pray.

The man and woman they soon were dead, The sailors their strength did urge; But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, And the winds sung their funeral dirge.

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily.

The second begun: She said she had done The task that Queen Hecate had set her, And that the devil, the father of evil, Had never accomplished a better.

She said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart With misery and care.

The daughter had a paramour, A wicked man was he, And oft the woman him against Did murmur grievously.

And the hag had work'd the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover.

And one night as the old woman Was sick and ill in bed. And pondering solely on the life Her wicked daughter led,

She heard her footstep on the floor, And she raised her pallid head, And she saw her daughter, with a knife, Approaching to her bed.

And said, My child, I'm very ill, I have not long to live, Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die Thy sins I may forgive.

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, And she lifted the sharp bright knife, And the mother saw her fell intent, And hard she begg'd for life.

But prayers would nothing her avail, And she scream'd aloud with fear, But the house was lone, and the piercing screams Could reach no human ear

And though that she was sick, and old, She struggled hard, and fought; The murderess cut three fingers through Ere she could reach her throat.

And the hag she held her fingers up, The skin was mangled sore, And they all agreed a nobler deed Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily.

The third arose: She said she'd been To holy Palestine; And seen more blood in one short day Than they had all seen in nine.

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, Drew nearer to the flame, For much she dreaded now to hear Her hapless lover's name.

The hag related then the sports Of that eventful day, When on the well contested field Full fifteen thousand lay.

She said that she in human gore Above the knees did wade, And that no tongue could truly tell The tricks she there had play'd.

There was a gallant featured youth, Who like a hero fought; He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, And every danger sought.

And in a vassal's garb disguised, Unto the knight she sues, And tells him she from Britain comes, And brings unwelcome news.

That three days ere she had embark'd His love had given her hand Unto a wealthy Thane:—and thought Him dead in Holy Land.

And to have seen how he did writhe When this her tale she told, It would have made a wizard's blood Within his heart run cold.

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed; And soon all mangled o'er with wounds He on the cold turf bled.

And from his smoking corse she tore His head, half clove in two. She ceased, and from beneath her garb The bloody trophy drew.

The eyes were starting from their socks, The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinn'd.

'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream The maiden gave a spring And from her fearful hiding-place She fell into the ring.

The lights they fled—the cauldron sunk, Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom.

Insensible the maiden lay Upon the hellish ground, And still mysterious sounds were heard At intervals around.

She woke—she half arose—and wild She cast a horrid glare, The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, And all was stillness there.

And through an awning in the rock The moon it sweetly shone, And show'd a river in the cave Which dismally did moan.

The stream was black, it sounded deep As it rush'd the rocks between, It offer'd well, for madness fired The breast of Gondoline.

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd With its accustom'd sound, And hollow peals of laughter loud Again rebellow'd round.

The maid was seen no more.—But oft Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour, Along the ocean's side.

A BALLAD.

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Ye pelting rains, a little rest; Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one, And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave, And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.

Sleep, baby mine,1 enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head.

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy?

Sleep, baby mine—Tomorrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest: Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

Oh! yonder is the well known spot, My dear, my long lost native home! Oh, welcome is yon little cot, Where I shall rest, no more to roam! Oh! I have travell'd far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried. And sung and danced my saraband. But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report It lured me from my native land; It bade me rove—my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights, That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen Shall while away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wandered far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband; But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

A PASTORAL SONG.

Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies; Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise; While nature, clad in vesture gay, Hails the loved return of day.

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade Upon the moor, shall seek the vale; And then, secure beneath the shade, We'll listen to the throstle's tale; And watch the silver clouds above, As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, That with its tones, so softly sweet, In cadence with my mellow flute, We may beguile the noontide heat; While near the mellow bee shall join, To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns, Except when heard the beetle's hum, We'll leave the sober tinted plains, To these sweet heights again we'll come; And thou to thy soft lute shalt play A solemn vesper to departing day.

MELODY.

Yes, once more that dying strain, Anna, touch thy lute for me; Sweet, when pity's tones complain, Doubly sweet is melody.

While the Virtues thus enweave Mildly soft the thrilling song, Winter's long and lonesome eve Glides unfelt, unseen, along.

Thus when life hath stolen away, And the wintry night is near, Thus shall virtue's friendly ray Age's closing evening, cheer.

SONG.

BY WALLER.

A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired, Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. H. K. WHITE.]

THE WANDERING BOY.

A SONG.

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy.

The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; No father, no mother, no kindred have I, For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire; Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale.

But my father and mother were summoned away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale; I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

CANZONET.

Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee, Cold the rain beats on thy breast: Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Death can bid the wretched rest! All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: Love has been a felon to thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: There's rest for thee All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, Gently o'er my Edwy fly! Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh.

I have cover'd him with rushes, Water-flags, and branches dry. Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken, Fastly closed is his eye; Paler is his cheek, and chiller Than the icy moon on high. Alas! he is dead, He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleak All along where the salt waves sigh.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips, On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death dirge, And our shroud the waters spread; The moon will smile sweet, And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT.

Thou, spirit of the spangled night! I woo thee from the watchtower high, Where thou dost sit to guide the bark Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low; Come, let us sit and weave a song— A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn, And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, But sweeter far the solemn calm That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And never human voice have heard; I've pass'd here many a lonely year, A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade, From sultry noon's hot beams; and I Have knelt before my wicker door, To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the gray morn high, On the blue mountain's misty brow, And tried to tune my little reed To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, As when upon the ocean shore I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The dayspring brings not joy to me, The moon it whispers not of peace; But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think Aërial voices answer me; And oh! I am not then alone— A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams.

And fancy gives me back my wife; And fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, To find myself still lone, and hear The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, The whispering of the boding trees, The brook's eternal flow, and oft The condor's hollow scream.

THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER.

A SONG.

Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save, Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. Derry down, down, high derry down.

This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; 'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. Derry down.

At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea; And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney To the throne of the Bourbons—a pretty long journey. Derry down.

He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all; The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. Derry down.

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain; And Germany too knows his legerdemain; So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, He's coming to London to put us to rights. Derry down.

To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship; With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. Derry down.

This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet; Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. Derry down.

If this project should fail, he has others in store; Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er; Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) May order balloons, or provide diving-bells. Derry down.

When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader; But how to greet Bonny she never will know, If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. Derry down.

Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, That his boats have not room to go down when they please, Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. Derry down.

How welcome he'll be it were needless to say; Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away; I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick. Derry down, down, high derry down.

HYMN.

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity.

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake; We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh, where shall man retire, To escape the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by; God sees his Well-beloved's face, And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen; To him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet, courage—days and years will glide, And we shall lay these clods aside, Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, We through the Lamb shall be decreed; Shall meet the Father face to face, And need no more a hiding-place.1

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O Lord, another day is flown, And we, a lonely band, Are met once more before thy throne, To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear, To praises low as ours? Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, As we before thee pray; For thou didst bless the infant train, And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part, And let contention cease; And shed abroad in every heart Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, A flock by Jesus led; The Sun of Holiness shall shine In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, And thou wilt bless our way; Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet The dawn of lasting day.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshal'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky; One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem; But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud,—the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd—and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor'd—my peril's o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever, and for evermore, The Star!—The Star of Bethlehem!

A HYMN.

O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, In mercy hear a sinner mourn! To thee I call, to thee I cry, O leave me, leave me not to die!

I strove against thee, Lord, I know, I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law; The hour is past—the day's gone by, And I am left alone to die.

O pleasures past, what are ye now But thorns about my bleeding brow! Spectres that hover round my brain, And aggravate and mock my pain.

For pleasure I have given my soul; Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll! Now, Vengeance, smile—and with a blow Lay the rebellious ingrate low.

Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling, I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing; I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, Even me, oh bliss!—his wrath may spare.