No pity needeth Penitence, for soft

And sweet, like distant music, are her dreams;
But all the tears that pity hath, too few
To give unto Remorse, that swalloweth up
Its own, nor in them any blessing knows
Though poured in floods, all falling fruitlessly
As tropic torrents on the desert sands.
Many beseechings strive to pacify

The Wretchedness that once was Unimore;
But crazed, they soon perceive, by misery crazed,
Is now the old man's brain. Wild wanderings take
His dim eyes up and down the Isle of Rocks,
And up and down all o'er the Glen of Prayer,
As if pursuing phantoms.

"Look not so!

Oh! hide from me your melancholy eyes,

And all their meek upbraidings! Not from heaven
Should spirits thus come upon a sinner's curse,
To make the misery more than he can bear,
And misery much already hath he borne.
Ye from your bliss have seen my mortal woe,
Shipwrecked and sold to slavery, and ye ken
What I do not, how it did come that chains
Were round about my body and my limbs
For many sunless, many moonless years,
In a strange place-it seemed to be a cell,
Sometimes as sultry as the desert, cold
Sometimes as ice; and strangers passing by
Did shuddering say-The wretch is still insane!'
Save! save the Orphan-sisters! See! they stand
Upon the Pine-Tree bridge. I hear them cry
For succour and for help on Unimore.

And I will save you, for these arms are strong,
And fleet these limbs as red-deer's on the hill!"

Lo! lifting up his frame, almost as straight
And tall as when in his majestic prime,
A stately spectre, shattered by the blows
Of time and trouble, misery and despair,
And, worst of all sin-smiters, gaunt remorse,
Totters away among the tombs and out

Of the hushed cemetery in among the woods,—
The chief of Morven, princely Unimore!
A shadow now! a phantom! ghost, or dream!

Lo! on the Pine-Tree bridge the spectre stands !
Outstretched his arms as in the act to save
The visionary Orphans! Stormy years

Have preyed upon the stem of that fallen Pine
Since last it shook beneath his tread-the lightnings
Have smitten it, and o'er that Bridge the roe
Would walk not, instinct-taught that it is frail
And hung on danger. With a splintering crash
It snaps asunder, frush as willow-wand,
And with the phantoms of the Orphans down
Precipitate with the sheer cataract

Into the mortal depth sinks Unimore.

EDDERLINE'S DREAM.

CANTO FIRST.

CASTLE-OBAN is lost in the darkness of night,
For the moon is swept from the starless heaven,
And the latest line of lowering light

That lingered on the stormy even,
A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,
Hath sunk into the weltering grave.
Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
And downwards to the fearful din,
Where Ocean with his thunder-shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,

Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent
A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,
From the edge of the howling battlement !

Therein is a lonesome room,
Undisturbed as some old tomb
That, built within a forest glen,
Far from feet of living men,
And sheltered by its black pine-trees,
From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
Flings back its archèd gateway tall,
At times to some great funeral.
Noiseless as a central cell
In the bosom of a mountain,
Where the fairy people dwell,
By the cold and sunless fountain !
Breathless as a holy shrine
When the voice of psalms is shed!
And there upon her stately bed,
While her raven locks recline
O'er an arm more pure than snow,
Motionless beneath her head,-

And through her large fair eyelids shine
Shadowy dreams that come and go,
By too deep bliss disquieted,—
There sleeps in love and beauty's glow,
The high-born Lady Edderline.

Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light,
Glide, gliding round the golden rim!
Restored to life, now glancing bright,
Now just expiring, faint and dim,
Like a spirit loth to die,
Contending with its destiny.
All dark! a momentary veil
Is o'er the sleeper! now a pale
Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,
And now the calm face of the saint
With every feature reappears,
Celestial in unconscious tears!
Another gleam! how sweet the while,
Those pictured faces on the wall
Through the midnight silence smile;
Shades of fair ones, in the aisle
Vaulted the castle cliffs below,
To nothing mouldered, one and all
Ages long ago!

From her pillow, as if driven

By an unseen demon's hand

Disturbing the repose of heaven,

Hath fallen her head! The long black hair,

From the fillet's silken band

In dishevelled masses riven,

Is streaming downwards to the floor.

Is the last convulsion o'er?

And will that length of glorious tresses,
So laden with the soul's distresses,
By those fair hands in morning light,
Above those eyelids opening bright,
Be braided never more?
No! the lady is not dead,

Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed;
Like a wrecked corse upon the shore,
That lies until the morning brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;

Or haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,
On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,
Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing,
No fading foot-mark see that tells
Of that poor unremembered thing!
O dreadful is the world of dreams,
When all that world a chaos seems
Of thoughts so fixed before!

When heaven's own face is tinged with blood!
And friends cross o'er our solitude,

Now friends of ours no more!

Or, dearer to our hearts than ever,

Keep stretching forth, with vain endeavour,

Their pale and palsied hands,

To clasp us phantoms, as we go
Along the void like drifting snow,
To far-off nameless lands!
Yet all the while we know not why,
Nor where those dismal regions lie,
Half hoping that a curse so deep
And wild can only be in sleep,
And that some overpowering scream
Will break the fetters of the dream,

And let us back to waking life,

Filled though it be with care and strife;

Since there at least the wretch can know

The meanings on the face of woe,
Assured that no mock shower is shed
Of tears upon the real dead,

Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss,

When bending o'er the death-like cheek
Of one who scarcely seems alive,
At every cold but breathing kiss,

He hears a saving angel speak

Eager to speak-but in terror mute,
With chained breath and snow-soft foot,
The gentle maid whom that lady loves,

Like a gleam of light through the darkness moves,