POEMS.

THE VISION OF THE SWALLOW.

"O blissful God! that art so good and true,
Lo! how that thou bewrayest murder alway;
Murder will out!--"
CHAUCER.

When beside the daisy-flower

Sleeps the lark upon the wold,

And the twilight's thoughtful hour

Broods o'er slumbering pen and fold,
Came a vision o'er my mind—

Wild and airy,

Like a fairy

-Thing upon the summer wind,

From the land of Legends old.

In the south, red Mars, descending,

Saw the glow-worm's cresset lit; Night and day in mutual blending, (Gloom and glimmer interknit) Wove the veil of eventide

Strangely then

As o'er the fen,

Shadows in the moonlight glide,

That vision o'er my brain did flit.

Once there lived a life secluded,
In a dark and lonesome mill,
One whose dim eye ever brooded,
O'er its dreary haunted rill,

Gurgling down the moorland bare:

Stern and fearless,

Strange and cheerless,

Dwelt a gloomy miller there,

Solitary, dark, and still.

Year by year he wander'd lonely,

On that bleak and barren moor; Spring-time brought the swallows only, To that wild and dreary shore, From the land beyond the sea.

Flitting daily,

Sporting gaily,

In their summer ecstacy

Round and round his lonely door.

O'er a sullen inland water,

In a cottage far away

Dwelt a woodman with his daughter,
Lone and lovely Ellen Gray-

Blythesome, innocent, and fair,
Joyous hearted,

She departed,

From her home one summer's day,

O'er the moorland bleak and bare.

But that evening she returned not,
And the woodman's heart grew cold:
Midnight came, and he discerned not
Ellen tripping o'er the wold-

No! nor when the dawn broke dim!

For she came not

Ah! she came not

Ever, ever, more to him!

Long the dark tale slept untold.

Then the lone sire, spirit shaken,
Frantic for his lost one grew!
Streams were dragged, and wilds forsaken,
Fens and forests traversed through,

And savage dells and sea-caves hoary ;

But nor cave

Nor shore nor wave

Aught revealed of Ellen's story

And her fate no mortal knew!

The Vision.

Slow the summer seemed departing,
Redden'd slow the changing heather:
Prescient of the hour for starting,

Flocked the swallow-tribes together,
And, to far-off summer land,

O'er the blue

Of ocean flew,

Leaving one upon the strand

Reckless of the wind and weather!

Wherefore linger here, sad swallow,
On this dreary beach alone?
Prune thy wings and swiftly follow,
Where thy fellows all have flown
Soon the wintry storms will come :

Wherefore stay?

Away-away!

E'er the river's stricken dumb,

And the autumn winds do moan.