Her mild glances met it too. Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock. Glendalough, thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!" Round the Lake light music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling o'er the fatal tide. ----T. Moore. THE HIGH-BORN LADY |In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo'd her, Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born ladye. "Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, "That knight must the conqu'ror of con- querors be; He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;-- None else shall be Lord of the high-born ladye!" Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On knights and on nobles of highest degree, Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipp'd at distance the high-born ladye. At length came a knight, from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd through her, He whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye. "Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee; In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see; Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s I'll place thee, And mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born ladye!" The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd her In pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye. "But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me? Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou would'st wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the high-born ladye. "'Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features, And Death was the lord of the high-born ladye! ----T. Moore. THE MAIDEN CITY |Where Foyle his swelling waters Rolls northward to the main, There, queen of Erin's daughters, Fair Derry fixed her reign; A holy temple crowned her,? And commerce graced her street, A rampart wall was round her, The river at her feet; And here she sat alone, boys, And, looking from the hill, Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still. From Antrim crossing over,