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(8.)-CLEVELAND'S SONGS.

1.

LOVE wakes and weeps
While Beauty sleeps!

O for Music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme,

For Beauty's dream,

Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

2.

Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm,

Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom

Comes soft perfume,

The distant beds of flowers revealing.

3.

O wake and live!

No dream can give

A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling;
No longer sleep,
From lattice peep,

And list the tale that Love is telling.

Farewell! Farewell! the voice you hear, Has left its last soft tone with you,Its next must join the seaward cheer,

And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm,

To cut the mast, and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise,—

The hand, that shook when press'd to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase--

Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear,-
Honor, or own, a long adieu!
To all that life has soft and dear,
Farewell! save memory of you!

Спар. ххіїї,

(9.)-CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES.

AND you shall deal the funeral dole;
Ay, deal it, mother mine,
To weary body, and to heavy soul,

The white bread and the wine.

And you shall deal my horses of pride; Ay, deal them, mother mine;

And you shall deal my lands so wide, And deal my castles nine.

But deal not vengeance for the deed,
And deal not for the crime;

The body to its place, and the soul to Heaven's grace,

And the rest in God's own time.

Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr of trea

son;

Saint Ronan rebuke thee, with rhyme and with

reason;

By the mass of Saint Martin, the might of Saint

Mary,

Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse if thou tarry!

If of good, go hence and hallow thee;—

If of ill, let the earth swallow thee;-

If thou'rt of air, let the gray mist fold thee;-
If of earth, let the swart mine hold thee;—
If a Pixie, seek thy ring;-
If a Nixie, seek thy spring;-
If on middle earth thou'st been
Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin,

Hast eat the bread of toil and strife,
And dree'd the lot which men call life;
Begone to thy stone! for thy coffin is scant of

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Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones, Are leaving bare thy giant bones. Who dared touch the wild bear's ski Ye slumber'd on, while life was in?A woman now, or babe, may come And cast the covering from thy tomb.

Yot be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight
Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight!
I come not, with unhallow'd tread,
To wake the slumbers of the dead,
Or lay thy giant reliques bare;

But what I seek thou well canst spare.
Be it to my hand allow'd

To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud;
Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough
To shield thy bones from weather rough.

See, I draw my magic knife-
Never, while thou wert in life,
Laidst thou still for sloth or fear,
When point and edge were glittering near;
See, the cerements now I sever-
Waken now, or sleep for ever!

Thou wilt not wake-the deed is done!-
The prize I sought is fairly won.

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks,-for this the sea
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee-
And while afar its billows foam,
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb.
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks-for this the might
Of wild winds raging at their height.
When to thy place of slumber ni,
Shall soften to a lullaby.

She, the dame of doubt and dread,
Norna of the Fitful-head,
Mighty in her own despite,-
Miserable in her might;
In despair and phrensy great,
In her greatness desolate;

Wisest, wickedest who lives,

Well can keep the word she gives.

Chap. xxv.

[AT INTERVIEW WITH MINNA.]

Thou, so needful, yet so dread,
With cloudy crest, and wing of red;
Thou, without whose genial breath

The North would sleep the sleep of death,-
Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth,
Yet hurls proud palaces to earth,—
Brightest, keenest of the Powers,
Which form and rule this world of ours,

With my rhyme of Runic, I
Thank thee for thy agency.

Old Reim-kennar, to thy art Mother Hertha sends her part; She, whose gracious bounty gives Needful food for all that lives, From the deep mine of the North Came the mystic metal forth, Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, Long to cere a champion's bones, Disinhumed my charms to aidMother Earth, my thanks are paid.

Girdle of our islands dear,
Element of Water, hear!
Thou whose power can overwhelm
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm

On the lowly Belgian strand,
All thy fiercest rage can never
Of our soil a furlong sever

From our rock-defended land; Play then gently thou thy part, To assist old Norna's art.

Elements, each other greeting,
Gifts and power attend your meeting!

Thou, that over billows dark
Safely send'st the fisher's bark,-
Giving him a path and motion
Through the wilderness of ocean;
Thou, that when the billows brave ye,
O'er the shelves canst drive the navy,-
Didst thou chafe as one neglected,
While thy brethren were respected?
To appease thee, see, I tear
This full grasp of grizzled hair;
Oft thy breath hath through it sung,
Softening to my magic tongue,-
Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly
Through the wide expanse of sky,
'Mid the countless swarms to sail
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale;
Take thy portion and rejoice,—
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice!

She who sits by haunted well,
Is subject to the Nixies' spell;
She who walks on lonely beach,
To the Mermaid's charmed speech;
She who walks round ring of green,
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen;

And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's cave, A weary weird of woe shall have.

By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore,
Minna Troil has braved all this and more;
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill,
A source that's more deep and more mystical

still.

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