NIGHT SCENES OF OTHER TIMES.

“The wild winds bellow o'er my head,

And spent eve's fading light;

Where shall I find some friendly shed

To screen me from the night?

“Ah! round me lies a desert vast,

No habitation near;

And dark and pathless is the waste,

And fills the mind with fear

“Thou distant tree, whose lonely top

Has bent to many a storm,

No more canst thou deceive my hope,

And take my lover's form;

“For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,

Black as thy blasted pride.

How deep the angry tempest growls

Along the mountain's side!

“Securely rests the mountain deer

Within his hollow den,

His slumber undisturb'd by fear,

Far from the haunts of men.

“Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps,

And twisted adders lie;

Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,

Nor gives his wonted cry.

“For angry spirits of the night

Ride in the troubled air,

And to their dens, in wild affright,

The beasts of prey repair.

“But oh! my love! where do'st thou rest?

What shelter covers thee?

O, may this cold and wint'ry blast

But only beat on me!

“Some friendly dwelling may'st thou find,

Where, undisturb'd with care,

Thou shalt not feel the chilly wind

That ruffles Marg'ret' s hair.

“Ah, no! for thou did'st give thy word

To meet me on the way;

Nor friendly roof, nor coastly board

Will tempt a lover's stay.

“O, raise thy voice, if thou art near!

Its weakest sound were bliss:

What other sound my heart can cheer

In such a gloom as this?

“But from the hills with stunning sound

The dashing torrents fall;

Loud is the raging tempest round,

And mocks a lover's call.

“Ha! see across the dreary waste

A gentle form appears!

It is my love, my cares are past,

How vain were all my fears?”

The form approach'd, but sad and slow,

Nor with a lover's tread;

And from his cheek the youthful glow,

And greeting smile was fled.

Dim sadness hung upon his brow;

Fix'd was his beamless eye:

His face was like the moon-light bow

Upon a win'try sky.

And fix'd and ghastly to the sight,

His strengthen'd features rose;

And bended was his graceful height,

And bloody were his clothes.

“O Marg'ret, calm thy troubled breast!

Thy sorrow now is vain:

Thy Edward from his peaceful rest

Shall ne'er return again.

“A treach'rous friend has brought me low,

And fix'd my early doom;

And laid my corpse, with feigned woe,

Beneath a vaulted tomb

“To take thee to my home I sware,

And here we were to meet:

Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,

And part my winding-sheet?

“But late the lord of many lands,

And now a grave is all:

My blood is warm upon his hands

Who revels in my hall.

“Yet think thy father's hoary hair

Is water'd with his tears;

He has but thee to sooth his care,

And prop his load of years.

“Remember Edward when he's gone,

He only liv'd for thee;

And when thou'rt pensive, and alone,

O Marg'ret call on me!

“Yet deep beneath the mould'ring clod

I rest my wounded head:

And terrible that call, and loud,

Which shall awake the dead.”

“No, Edward, I will follow thee,

And share thy hapless doom:

Companions shall our spirits be,

Tho’ distant is thy tomb.

“O! never to my father's tower

Will I return again!

A bleeding heart has little power

To ease another's pain.

“Upon the wing my spirit flies,

I feel my course is run;

Nor shall these dim and weary eyes

Behold to-morrow's sun.”

Like early dew, or hoary frost,

Spent with the beaming day,

So shrunk the pale and wat'ry ghost,

And dimly wore away.

No longer Marg'ret felt the storm,

She bow'd her lovely head;

And with her lover's fleeting form,

Her gentle spirit fled.