ORIGINAL POETRY. POLYDORE. A BALLAD. ON Rimside Moor a tempest-cloud At midnight, and the desert flat Re-echoed to the blast; When a poor child of guilt came there "My God! Oh whither shall I turn ? 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, And comrade Gregory that's dead!-- "I'll seek that hut where I was wont Nor terrors vain, nor things long past, And fear constrains to visit haunts 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, Had left pursuit, so wild the paths, The tempest was so loud. The bolts had still retain'd their place, And laid him down, and heard the blast Terror and guilt united strove To chase sweet sleep away; A knock comes thundering to the door, "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, An 'twere not for the gibbet rope, The blast has toss'd my bones about "The elm was dropping on my hair, |