Not long such fancies can beguile

Dreams of what cannot be ; Gone is thy visionary smile, And thou art but a distant isle Upon a distant sea.

THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.

FAIR lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore
Hath only echoes for the poet's lute;
None may tread there save with unsandall'd foot,
Submissive to the great who went before,
Fill'd with the mighty memories of yore.

And yet how mournful are the records there-
Captivity, and exile, and despair,

Did they endure who now endure no more.
The patriot, the woman, and the bard,
Whose names thy winds and waters bear along;
What did the world bestow for their reward
But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong ?-
Genius!-a hard and weary lot is thine-
The heart thy fuel-and the grave thy shrine.

DEATH OF LOUIS OF BOURBON,

BISHOP OF LIEGE.

How actual, through the lapse of years,
That scene of death and dread appears.
The maiden shrouded in her veil,
The burghers half resolved, half pale;
And the young archer leant prepared,
With dagger hidden, but still bared-
Are real, as if that stormy scene
In our own troubled life had been.
Such is the magic of the page
That brings again another age.
Such, Scott, the charms thy pages cast,
O, mighty master of the past!

ADMIRAL BENBOW.

THE Admiral stood upon the deck,

Before a shot was thrown; Before him rode a Frenchman's fleet, Behind him lay his own.

Six gallant ships upon the sea Their stately shadows cast: In all of them St. George's flag Was waving at the mast.

Dark was the shadow on the sea,

And dark upon the sky; In stillness like the coming storm, The English fleet sail'd by.

Our Admiral he gave the word-
Up rose the gallant crew;
And far across the sounding seas
Their iron welcome threw.

The earthly thunder of the deep Pour'd from the Breda's side; With welcome fiery as their own, The Fleur-de-lis replied.

"Signal to form our battle-line!"
The English admiral said;
At once above the rising smoke
The signal-flags are spread.

The wind sprung up-a hotter fire
Is carried o'er the flood;
The deck whereon the seamen stand
Is slippery with blood.

The smoke that rises from the guns
Rolls on the heavy air,

So thick above 'twere vain to ask
If heaven itself be there.

The thunder growls along the deep,
The echoing waves reply;
Yet, over all is heard the groan,
Deep, faint, of those who die.

The wind goes down-down drop the sails-
A while the conflict stops;

A last chain-shot sweeps o'er the deck-
Our admiral, he drops!

What careth he for life or wound?— The flowing blood they check: Again, though helpless as a child, They bear him to the deck.

With heavy eyes he looks around—
An angry man was he;

He sees three English frigates lie
All idle on the sea.

"Out on the cowards!" mutter'd he,
Then turn'd to where beside,
The Ruby, his true consort, lay
A wreck upon the tide.

There is no time for thought or word, The French are coming fast; Again the signal flag is hung Unnoticed at his mast.

A raking fire sweeps through her deck, The Breda has resign'd;

For the first time her sails are spread, And with the foe behind.

They take the dying admiral,

They carry him ashore; They lay him on the bed of death From whence he rose no more.

But not unhonour'd is his name—

Recall'd and honour'd long; His name on many a song that speeds The midnight watch along.

But for the cowards who could leave The brave man to his doom, Theirs was the scorned memory,

And theirs the nameless tomb.

They died-their long dishonour flung
Forever on the wave;

Time brings no silence to the shame
Cast on the coward's grave.

DISENCHANTMENT.

Do not ask me why I loved him,

Love's cause is to love unknown; Faithless as the past has proved him, Once his heart appear'd mine own. Do not say he did not merit

All my fondness, all my truth; Those in whom love dwells inherit Every dream that haunted youth.

He might not be all I dream'd him,
Noble, generous, gifted, true,
Not the less I fondly deem'd him,
All those flattering visions drew.
All the hues of old romances

By his actual self grew dim;
Bitterly I mock the fancies

That once found their life in him.

From the hour by him enchanted,

From the moment when we met, Henceforth with one image haunted, Life may never more forget.

All my nature changed-his being Seem'd the only source of mine. Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing Thy sad future to divine?

Once, upon myself relying,

All I ask'd were words and thought; Many hearts to mine replying, Own'd the music that I brought. Eager, spiritual, and lonely, Visions fill'd the fairy hour, Deep with love-though love was only Not a presence, but a power.

But from that first hour I met thee, All caught actual life from you. Alas! how can I forget thee,

Thou who mad'st the fancied true? Once my wide world was ideal,

Fair it was-ah! very fair: Wherefore hast thou made it real? Wherefore is thy image there?

Ah! no more to me is given

Fancy's far and fairy birth; Chords upon my lute are riven, Never more to sound on earth. Once, sweet music could it borrow From a look, a word, a tone; I could paint another's sorrowNow I think but of mine own.

Life's dark waves have lost the glitter Which at morning-tide they wore, And the well within is bitter;

Naught its sweetness may restore: For I know how vainly given

Life's most precious things may be, Love that might have look'd on heaven, Even as it look'd on thee.

Ah, farewell!-with that word dying, Hope and love must perish too: For thy sake themselves denying,

What is truth with thee untrue? Farewell!-'tis a dreary sentence,

Like the death-doom of the grave, May it wake in thee repentance, Stinging when too late to save!