ORIGINAL POETRY.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

POLYDORE.

A BALLAD.

ON Rimside Moor a tempest-cloud
Its dreary shadows cast

At midnight, and the desert flat

Re-echoed to the blast;

When a poor child of guilt came there
With frantic step to range,
For blood was sprinkled on the garb
He dared not stay to change.

"My God! Oh whither shall I turn ?
The horsemen press behind,
Their hollo' and their horses' tramp

Come louder on the wind;

But there's a sight on yonder heath

I dare not, cannot face,

Though 'twere to save me from those hounds, And gain my spirit grace.

"Why did I seek those hated haunts

Long shunn'd so fearfully;

Was there not room on other hills

To hide and shelter me?

Here's blood on every stone I meet,
Bones in each glen so dim,

And comrade Gregory that's dead!--
But I'll not think of him.

"I'll seek that hut where I was wont
To dwell on a former day,

Nor terrors vain, nor things long past,
Shall scare me thence away.
That cavern from the law's pursuit
Has saved me oft before,

And fear constrains to visit haunts
I hoped to see no more."

Through well-known paths, though long untrod, The robber took his way,

Until before his eyes the cave

All dark and desert lay.

There he, when safe beneath its roof,
Began to think the crowd

Had left pursuit, so wild the paths,

The tempest was so loud.

The bolts had still retain'd their place,
He barred the massy door,

And laid him down, and heard the blast
Careering o'er the moor.

Terror and guilt united strove

To chase sweet sleep away;
But sleep with toil prevail'd at last,
And seized him where he lay.

A knock comes thundering to the door,
The robber's heart leaps high-
"Now open quick, remember'st not
Thy comrade Gregory ?"-

"Whoe'er thou art, with smother'd voice

Strive not to cheat mine ear,

My comrade Gregory is dead,

His bones are hanging near!"

"Now ope thy door nor parley more,
Be sure I'm Gregory!

An 'twere not for the gibbet rope,
My voice were clear and free.
The wind is high, the wind is loud,
It bends the old elm tree;

The blast has toss'd my bones about
This night most wearily.

"The elm was dropping on my hair,
The shackles gall'd my feet;
To hang in chains is a bitter lair,
And oh a bed is sweet!