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And on her lips there played a smile,
As holy, meek, and faint

As lights in some cathedral aisle

The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren,—the farm is old,"
The thoughtful Planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains;

For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!

Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,

To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

Once more, and where the poet preaches the most solemn of sermons; for he speaks of "The Witnesses" who cry from unknown

graves.

In Ocean's wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Lie skeletons in chains,

With skackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships with all their crews,
No more to sink or rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs
Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves ;
They gleam from the abyss;
They cry, from yawning waves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

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By the oak-shadowed well she stood,
Her rounded arms uplifted,

To bind the curls whose golden flood
Had from its fillets drifted,
Whilst stooping o'er the fount to fill
The rustic urn beside her,
Her face to evening's beauty still
Imparting beauty wider.

She told me of the road I missed--
Gave me to drink-and even

At parting waved the hand she kissed,
White as a star in heaven;

But never smiled-though prompt and warm
I paid, in duteous phrases,

The tribute that so fair a form

From minstrel ever raises.

The gladness murmured to her cheek,

Unfolded not its roses

That bluest morn will never break

That in her eye reposes.

Some gentle wo, with dovelike wings,
Had o'er her cast a shadow,
Soft as the sky of April flings
Upon a vernal meadow.

In vain, with venial art, to sound
The springs of that affliction,
I hinted of my craft-renowned
For omen and prediction;
In vain, assuming mystic power,
Her fortune to discover,

I guessed its golden items o'er

And closed them with-a lover.

It failed for once-that final word-
A maiden's brow to brighten;
The cloud within her soul, unstirred,
Refused to flash or lighten.

She felt and thanked the artifice,
Beneath whose faint disguising
I would have prompted hope and peace,
With accents sympathizing.

But no-she said (the while her face
A summer wave resembled,
Outsparkling from some leafy place,
Then back to darkness trembled)—
For her was neither living hope
Nor loving heart allotted;
Joy had but drawn her horoscope
For Sorrow's hand to blot it.

Her words made silvery stop-for lo,
Peals of sweet laughter ringing!
And through the wood's green solitudes
Glad village-damsels winging!

As though that mirth some feeling jarred,
The maiden, pensive-hearted,

Murmured farewell, and through the dell
In loneliness departed.

With breeze-tossed locks and gleaming feet
And store of slender pitchers,

O'er the dim lawns, like rushing fawns,

Came the fair Water-fetchers;

VOL. II. (1843) NO. I.

H

And there, while round that well's gray oak,
Cluster'd the sudden glory,

Fair Judith Lee, from guileless lips
I heard thy simple story.

Of humble lot-the legends wild,
Believed by that condition,
Had mingled with her spirit mild
Their haunting superstition;
Which grew to grief, when o'er her youth
The doom descended, spoken

On those who see beneath their touch
The fatal Mirror broken.

"NEVER IN LIFE TO PROSPER MORE!"
And so, from life sequestered,
With dim forebodings brooding o'er
The shafted fate that festered
Deep in the white depths of her soul,
The patient girl awaited

Ill's viewless train-her days to pain
And duty consecrated.

At times she deemed the coming wo
Through others' hearts would reach her,

Till every tie that twined her low,

Upon the lap of Nature

Her once-loved head unwatched, unknown,
Should sink in meek dejection,
Hushed as some Quiet carved in stone
Above entombed affection.

E'en her young heart's instinctive want
To be beloved and loving,
Inexorably vigilant,

She checked with cold reproving:
For still she saw, should tempests frown,
That treacherous anchor sever,

And Hope's whole priceless freight go down.
A shipwrecked thing for ever.

So pined that gracious form away,
Her bliss-fraught life untasted ;
A breeze-harp whose divinest voice
On lonely winds is wasted.
And such the tale to me conveyed
In laughing tones or lowly,
As still that rosy crowd was swayed
By mirth or melancholy.

I've seen since then the churchyard nook
Where Judith Lee lies sleeping;

The wild ash loves it, and a brook

Through emerald mosses crseping:
For that lost maiden ever there

A low sweet mass is singing,
While all around, like nuns at prayer,
Pale water-flowers are springing.

Poor girl!-I've thought, as there reclined,
I drank the sunset's glory-

Thy tale to meditative mind
Is but an allegory:

Once shatter inborn Truth divine,

The soul's transparent mirror,

Where Heaven's reflection loved to shine,
And what remains but terror?

Terror and Wo;-Faith's holy face
No more our hearts relieving-
Fades from the past each early grace
The future brings but grieving;
However fast life's blessings fall

In lavish sunshine o'er us,

That Broken Glass distorts them all,

Whose fragments glare before us.

Mr. Simmons states that the superstition of whoever breaks a looking-glass is destined to misfortune prevails widely in Ireland, and is not unknown in certain districts of England. Be it entertained where it may, our poet has given it with a touching effect, there being the simplicity of nature in the story, and that felicitous expression that shapes itself to apt thought. And now a word or two about the merits of the Legends, Lyrics, and Poems, most of which have appeared in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. Perhaps, indeed, a more expressive recommendation could not be bestowed, than the mention of this circumstance. True, the occasional form and character of the pieces preclude the idea of elaborate construction and extended power. But we meet in them with unmistakeable tokens of right feeling well cultured,-of poetical fancy tastefully attuned, both in regard to spirit and versification. We should say too that the author has an elastic, pliable genius, that readily accommodates itself to any theme and style; his resources in respect of rhythm, imagery, and emotion being various and natural. There is at times a common-place character about his subjects, and he seems to have a capacity for imitation, when, for example, he sets his homage upon Byron. But we think there are manifest proofs in

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