From her fire-side she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,

Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
Full-leaved, the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter'd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.
Again she tried, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin,
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And dazed with saintly imag'ries.

All was gloom, and silent all,

Save now and then the still foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.

The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry-nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom, Abroad and in the homely room: Down she sat, poor cheated soul! And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair VOL. III.

3

And slant book, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,

Hover'd about, a giant size,

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw, and tender Av'davat,
And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
Untired she read, her shadow still
Glower'd about, as it would fill

The room with wildest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments black.
Untired she read the legend page,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,
With golden star, or dagger bright,
Referr'd to pious poesies

Written in smallest crow-quill size
Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
Was parcell'd out from time to time:
"Als writith he of swevenis,

Men han beforne they wake in bliss,
Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound

In crimped shroude farre under grounde;
And how a litling child mote be

A saint er its nativitie,

Gif that the modre (God her blesse !)
Kepen in solitarinesse,

And kissen devoute the holy croce.
Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,-
He writith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not shew.
Bot I must tellen verilie

Somdel of Saintè Cicilie,

And chieflie what he auctorethe
Of Sainte Markis life and dethe:"

At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,-

1819.

P

TO FANNY.

HYSICIAN Nature! let my spirit blood! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood

Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.

I come

- I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me not into the wintry air.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears

A smile of such delight,

As brilliant and as bright,

As when with ravish'd, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,

I gaze, I gaze!

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon?
Ah! keep that hand unravish'd at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn-

But, pr'ythee, do not turn

The current of your heart from me so soon. O! save, in charity,

The quickest pulse for me.

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air,

Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath;

Be like an April day,

Smiling and cold and gay,

A temperate lily, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be

A warmer June for me.

Why, this- you'll say, my Fanny! is not true: Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats: confess-'tis nothing new Must not a woman be

A feather on the sea,

Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?
Of as uncertain speed

As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it and to know it is despair

To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes flutt'ring for you everywhere, Nor, when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home,

Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,

From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,

Or with a rude hand break

The sacramental cake:

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower
If not-may my eyes close,
Love! on their last repose.

W

ΤΟ

HAT can I do to drive away

Remembrance from my eyes? for they
have seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there: