Cold the morning light has shone,
And the fairy train are gone,
Melted in the dewy air,

Lonely stands young Raymond there.
Yet not all alone, his heart

Hath a dream that will not part From that beating heart's recess; What that dream that lover's guess.

Yet another year hath flown

In a stately hall alone,
Like an idol in a shrine
Sits the radiant Melusine.
It is night, yet o'er the walls,
Light, but light unearthly, falls.
Not from lamp nor taper thrown,
But from many a precious stone,
With whose variegated shade
Is the azure roof inlaid,

And whose colour'd radiance throws
Hues of violet and rose.
Sixty pillars, each one shining
With a wreath of rubies twining,
Bear the roof-the snow-white floor
Is with small stars studded o'er.
Sixty vases stand between,
Fill'd with perfumes for a queen;
And a silvery cloud exhales
Odours like those fragrant gales,
Which at eve float o'er the sea
From the purple Araby.
Nothing stirs the golden gloom
Of that dim enchanted room.
Not a step is flitting round,
Not a noise except the sound
Of the distant fountains falling,
With a soft perpetual calling,
To the echoes which reply
Musical and mournfully.

Sits the fairy ladye there,
Like a statue, pale and fair;
From her cheek the rose has fled,
Leaving deeper charms instead.
On that marble brow are wrought
Traces of impassion'd thought;
Such as without shade or line
Leave their own mysterious sign.
While her eyes, they are so bright,
Dazzle with imperious light,
Wherefore doth the maiden bend
Wherefore doth the blush ascend,
Crimson even to her brow,
Sight nor step are near her now?
Hidden by her sweeping robe,
Near her stands a crystal globe,
Gifted with strange power to show
All that she desires to know.

First she sees her palace gate, With its steps of marble state;

Where two kneeling forms seem weeping
O'er the watch which they are keeping,
While around the dusky boughs

Of a gloomy forest close:
Not for those that blush arose.
But she sees beside the gate,

A young and anxious palmer wait;
Well she knows it is for her,
He has come a worshipper.

For a year and for a day,
Hath he worn his weary way;
Now a sign from that white hand,
And the portals open stand.
But a moment, and they meet,
Raymond kneels him at her feet;
Reading in her downcast eye,
All that woman can reply.

Weary, weary had the hours
Pass'd within her fairy bowers;
She was haunted with a dream
Of the knight beside the stream.
Who hath never felt the sense
Of such charm'd influence.
When the shapes of midnight sleep
One beloved object keep,
Which amid the cares of day
Never passes quite away?
Guarded for the sweetest mood

Of our happy solitude,

Link'd with every thing we love,
Flower below or star above:
Sweet spell after sweet spell thrown
Till the wide world is its own.
Turn'd the ladye deadly pale,

As she heard her lover's tale,
"Yes," she said,-O! low sweet word,
Only in a whisper heard.

"Yes, if my true heart may be

Worthy, Christian knight, of thee,

By the love that makes thee mine

I am deeply, dearly thine.

But a spell is on me thrown,
Six days may each deed be shown,
But the seventh day must be
Mine, and only known to me.
Never must thy step intrude
On its silent solitude.

Hidden from each mortal eye
Until seven years pass by.
When these seven years are flown,
All my secret may be known.
But if, with suspicious eye,

Thou on those dark hours wilt pry,
Then farewell, beloved in vain,
Never might we meet again."

Gazing on one worshipp'd brow,
When hath lover spared a vow?
With an oath and with a prayer
Did he win the prize he sought,
Never was a bride so fair,

As the bride that Raymond brought
From the wood's enchanted bowers
To his old ancestral towers.

O, sweet love, could thy first prime Linger on the steps of time,

Man would dream the unkind skies
Shelter'd still a Paradise.
But, alas, the serpent's skill
Is amid our gardens still.

Soon a dark inquiring thought
On the baron's spirit wrought:
She, who seem'd to love him so,
Had she aught he might not know?
Was it wo, how could she bear
Grief he did not sooth nor share?
Was it guilt? no-heaven's own grace
Lighten'd in that loveliest face.
Then his jealous fancies rose,
(Our lady keep the mind from those!)
Like a fire within the brain,
Maddens that consuming pain.
Henceforth is no rest by night,
Henceforth day has no delight
Life hath agonies that tell
Of their late left native hell.
But 'mid their despair is none
Like that of the jealous one.

"Tis again the fatal day,
When the ladye must away,
To her lonely palace made
Far within the forest shade,
Where the mournful fountains sweep
With a voice that seems to weep,
On that morn Lord Raymond's bride
Ere the daybreak leaves his side.
Never does the ladye speak
But her tears are on his cheek,
And he hears a stifled moan
As she leaves him thus alone.
Hath she then complaint to make,
Is there yet some spell to break?
Come what will, of weal or wo,
"Tis the best the worst to know.

He hath follow'd-wo, for both,
That the knight forgot his oath.
Where the silvery fountains fall,
Stands no more the charmed hall,
But the dismal yew trees droop,
And the pines above them stoop,
While the gloomy branches spread,
As they would above the dead,
In some churchyard large and drear
Haunted with perpetual fear.

Dark and still like some vast grave,
Near there yawns a night-black cave.
O'er its mouth wild ivy twines
There the daylight never shines.
Beast of prey or dragon's lair,
Yet the knight hath enter'd there.

Dimly doth the distant day
Scatter an uncertain ray,

While strange shapes and ghastly eyes

'Mid the spectral darkness rise. But he hurries on, and near

He sees a sudden light appear,

Wan and cold like that strange lamp
Which amid the charnal's damp
Shows but brightens not the gloom

Of the corpse and of the tomb.
With a cautious step he steals
To the cave that light reveals.
"Tis such grotto as might be,
Nereid's home beneath the sea.
Crested with the small bright stars
Of a thousand rainbow spars
And a fountain from the side
Pours beneath its crystal tide,
In a white and marble bath
Singing on its silvery path;
While a meteor's emerald rays
O'er the lucid water plays.—

Close beside, with wild flowers laid,
Is a couch of green moss made
There he sees his lady lie;
Pain is in her languid eye,
And amid her hair the dew
Half obscures its golden hue;
Damp and heavy, and unbound,
Its wan clusters sweep around.
On her small hand leans her head,—
See the fever'd cheek is red,
And the fiery colour rushes
To her brow in hectic blushes.-
What strange vigil is she keeping!
He can hear that she is weeping.—
He will fling him at her feet,

He will kiss away her tears.
Ah, what doth his wild eyes meet,
What below that form appears?
Downwards from that slender waist,
By a golden zone embraced,
Do the many folds escape,
Of the subtle serpent's shape.-
Bright with many-colour'd dyes
All the glittering scales arise,
With a red and purple glow
Colouring the waves below!
At the strange and fearful sight,
Stands in mute despair the knight,--
Soon to feel a worse despair
Melusina sees him there!

And to see him is to part
With the idol of her heart,
Part as just the setting sun
Tells the fatal day is done.
Vanish all those serpent rings,
To her feet the lady springs,

And the shriek rings through the cell,
Of despairing love's farewell,-
Hope and happiness are o'er,
They can meet on earth no more.

Years have past since this wild tale-
Still is heard that lady's wail,
Ever round that ancient tower,
Ere its lord's appointed hour.
With a low and moaning breath
She must mark approaching death,
While remains Lord Raymond's line
Doom'd to wander and to pine.
Yet, before the stars are bright,
On the evening's purple light,
She beside the fountain stands
Wringing sad her shadowy hands,
May our lady, as long years
Pass with their atoning tears,
Pardon with her love divine
The fountain fairy-Melusine ?*

THE HINDOO MOTHER.

SHE leaves it to the sacred stream,
She leaves it to the tide,
Her little child-her darling one,
And she has none beside.

She used to sit beneath the palm,

Her boy upon her knee; And dreaming of the future years, That were his own to be:

She saw him with a stately steed,
The sabre in his hand;
His pistols gleaming at his waist,
The foremost of his band:

She saw him with his father's smile,
Beside some maiden dear;
She smiled to hear familiar words!
Alas! and is he here!

Raymond, first Lord of Lusignan, died as a hermit, at Monserrat. Melusina's was a yet harsher doom: fated to flit over the earth, in pain and sorrow, as a spectre. Only when one of the race of Lusignan were about to die, does she become visible,-and wanders wailing around the Castle. Tradition also represents her shadow as hovering over the Fountain of Thirst.-Thom's Lays and Legends.

The light has vanish'd from her day,
The hope gone from her heart;
The young, the bright, and the beloved,
O! how could he depart?

No more his sunny smile will make
Her own, her household light;
No more will her sweet voice be heard,
Above his sleep at night.

Her heart and home are desolate,

But for one dearest tie;
But for the father of her child,

She would lay down and die.

The tide rolls on beneath the moon,
Down to the mighty main;
To-morrow may the mother seek,
And seek her child in vain.*

IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW.
GATHER her raven hair in one rich cluster,
Let the white champac light it, as a star
Gives to the dusky night a sudden lustre,

Shining afar.

Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom, Until the breathing air around grows sweet; Scatter the languid jasmine's yellow blossom Beneath her feet.

*Of the custom alluded to above, Mrs. Belnos gives the following interesting description:-" Hindoos of high caste burn their dead; but if unable to do so from poverty, are forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having performed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead are too great for any but the rich. When the infant of a poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she lays it for some time on a piece of mat, or on the sands; she stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires a few paces back, where she sits down watching for the return of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it; at intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great distance) in the following words:-'O! my child! who has taken thee, my child! I nourished thee and reared thee, and now where art thou gone! take me with thee, O! my child, my child! thou play'dst around me like a gold top, my child! the like of thy face I have never seen, my child! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The infant continually called me mah, mah,(mother, mother ;) the infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap! my child his father never stayed at home since he was born, my child! my child! but bore him continually in his arms for men to admire. What has become now of that admiration! Evil befall the eyes of men! O! my life, say mah again, my child! my child! My arms and my lap feel empty, who will fill them again? O, my sweet burden, my eyesight has become darkened, now that thou hast vanished from before it !"

So stands it when the morning light
First steals upon the skies;
And shadow'd by the fallen night,
The sleeping city lies.

It stands with darkness round it cast, Touch'd by the first cold shine; Vast, vague, and mighty as the past Of which it is the shrine.

'Tis lovely when the moonlight falls Around the sculptured stone, Giving a softness to the walls,

Like love that mourns the gone.

Then comes the gentlest influence
The human heart can know,
The mourning over those gone hence
To the still dust below.

The smoke, the noise, the dust of day,
Have vanish'd from the scene;
The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray
O'er the park's sweeping green.

Sad shining on her lonely path,

The moon's calm smile above, Seems as it lull'd life's toil and wrath With universal love.

Past that still hour, and its pale moon,
The city is alive;

It is the busy hour of noon,
When man must seek and strive.

The pressure of our actual life

Is on the waking brow; Labour and care, endurance, strife,

These are around him now.

How wonderful the common street,
Its tumult and its throng,
The hurrying of the thousand feet
That bear life's cares along.

How strongly is the present felt,
With such a scene beside;

All sounds in one vast murmur melt
The thunder of the tide.

All hurry on--none pause to look
Upon another's face:
The present is an open book

None read, yet all must trace.

The poor man hurries on his race,
His daily bread to find!

The rich man has yet wearier chase,
For pleasure's hard to bind.

All hurry, though it is to pass
For which they live so fast-

What doth the present but amass, The wealth that makes the past.

The past is round us-those old spires
That glimmer o'er our head;
Not from the present is their fires,
Their light is from the dead.

But for the past, the present's powers
Were waste of toil and mind;
But for those long and glorious hours
Which leave themselves behind.

WARKWORTH HERMITAGE.*

THE lonely cavern, like a chapel carved,
Is situate amid the lonely hills;

The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock;
And by the altar is a cenotaph.

In marble there a lovely lady lies;

An angel, with a welcome at her side,

A welcome to the soul be beareth heaven. And near a warrior stands-the desolate! The wide earth only holds one tomb for him. Such must have been his history, who first Cut this sad hermitage within the rock: Some spirit-broken and world-weary man,

* Warkworth Hermitage is situated about half a mile above Warkworth castle, on the brink of the Coquet river. This venerable retreat is probably the best preserved and the most entire work of its kind now remaining in the kingdom. It contains three apartments, all of them formed by excavation of the solid rock, and impends over the river clothed in a rich mantle of ancient trees, remains of the venerable woods which in olden times sheltered the inmates of this romantic solitude. Mr. Grose, in his Antiquities, "ventures to call the three apartments, by way of distinction, the chapel, the sacristy, and antechapel."

The chapel is eighteen feet in length, by about seven and a half in width and height; and is beautifully modelled in the Gothic style of architecture. The sides are adorned with neat octagon pillars, branching off to the ceiling, and terminating in small pointed arches at the groins. At the east end is a plain altar, ascended by two steps; and behind is a little niche, in which was probably placed the crucifix.

The sacristy is a plain oblong apartment, running parallel with the chapel. The remains of an altar may still be seen at the east end, at which mass was occasion. ally performed. Between this room and the chapel is a small opening, whence the hermit might make confession, and behold the elevation of the host. Near this opening is a door leading into the chapel, and over it a small escutcheon with all the emblems of the passion-the cross -the crown of thorns-the nails-the spear-and the sponge. On the south side of the altar is a cenotaph supporting three figures; the principal one being that of a female, over whom an angel is hovering; the remaining figure is a warrior, in an erect position, at the lady's feet.

The beautiful ballad by Bishop Percy, in which he has recorded the traditional history of this hermitage, is familiar to the readers of English poetry.