"In the name of MY Master," said the astonished Monk," that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus?"

The same voice replied,

That which is neither ill nor well,

That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,
A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,
"Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;
A form that men spy
With the half-shut eye

In the beams of the setting sun, am I.

Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night;

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. Again, again,

At the crook of the glen,

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again.

TO HALBERT.

YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me? Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee? He that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear, nor failing;

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.

The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep

Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound; The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my

stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

What I am I must not show-
What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell--
Something that neither stood nor fell-
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!

1 Backless-Innocent.

Though I am form'd from the ether blue,
And my blood is of the unfallen dew,
And thou art framed of mud and dust,
"Tis thine to speak, reply I must.

A mightier wizard far than I
Wields o'er the universe his power;
Him owns the eagle in the sky,
The turtle in the bower.

Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still,
He wields the heart of man at will,
From ill to good, from good to ill,
In cot and castle-tower.

Ask thy heart, whose secret cell
Is fill'd with Mary Avenel !
Ask thy pride, why scornful look
In Mary's view it will not brook?
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise
Among the mighty and the wise,-
Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot,—
Why thy pastimes are forgot,-
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife
Mend thy luck or lose thy life?
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell,
Sighing from its secret cell,
'Tis for Mary Avenel.

Do not ask me;

On doubts like these thou canst not task me.
We only see the passing show
Of human passions' ebb and flow;
And view the pageant's idle glance
As mortals eye the northern dance,
When thousand streamers, flashing bright,
Career it o'er the brow of night,

And gazers mark their changeful gleams,
But feel no influence from their beams.

By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race
Holds strange connection with the sons of men.
The star that rose upon the House of Avenel,
When Norman Ulric first assumed the name,
That star, when culminating in its orbit,
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew,
And this bright font received it—and a Spirit
Rose from the fountain, and her date of life
Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel
And with the star that rules it.

Look on my girdle-on this thread of gold-
"Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer,
And, but there is a spell on't, would not bind,
Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe.
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive chain,
Such as might bind the champion of the Jews,
Even when his locks were longest-it hath dwindled,
Hath 'minish'd in its substance and its strength,
As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel.
When this frail thread gives way, I to the elements

MAIDEN, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead, Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive, Maiden, attend! Beneath my foot lies hid

The Word, the Law, the Path which thou dost strive To find, and canst not find.-Could Spirits shed Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, Showing the road which I shall never tread, Though my foot points it.-Sleep, eternal sleep, Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot!But do not thou at human ills repine; Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot

For all the woes that wait frail Adam's lineStoop then and make it your's,-1 may not make it mine! Chap. xxx.

THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD GLENDINNING.

THOU who seek'st my fountain lone,
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not own;
Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad,
When most his brow seem'd dark and sad;
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier;
The Dead Alive is gone and fled—
Go thou, and join the Living Dead!

The Living Dead, whose sober brow
Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now,
Whose hearts within are seldom cured
Of passions by their vows abjured;