Sleep, sleep! the ship has left the shore, The steed awaits his lord no more; His lord still madly lingers by The fatal maid he cannot fly, And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill, He and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. IV. Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on; Then shall the wailing slave be gone, Flitting the hill-top far, for fear The sounds of joy may reach his ear; The sounds of joy!--the hollow knell Pealed from the mocking chapel-bell. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill. "Mighty well!" exclaimed Miss Falconer, so soon as the roundelay was finished. "That is one of Jingleum's madrigals, I dare be sworn; for there's the 'ship' and the 'steed' in it; and I never yet saw or heard of one of his compositions that had not a touch of salt water and the saddle. And so the dear ape has got to singing, has he? and he mourns the merry marriage-bell, the goose-cap! Really, I had no idea the youth had so good a voice." "You are mistaken," said Catherine, who, Miss Falconer almost suspected, was asleep, for she did not lift her head from the pillow, and rather muttered out the words than spoke,--"it is the young gentleman,--Mr. Hunter." "Hah, indeed!" cried Harriet, quickly: "And _he_ has got to chains and chapel-bells, too? But, pho, I forgot you told me about his singing. This serenading, though, is somewhat presumptuous. Well now, good youth, get you gone, and let us to our slumbers. I'll rouse you, Kate, I warrant me.--Why, good heaven, what is the matter? Crying again, Catherine! Sure, if I spoke roughly to you, Kate, I did not mean to offend you; and you must remember, it was on my father's account I became so suspicious, and averse to strange advisers and confidants." She did not doubt that Catherine was brooding over her former hasty and reproachful expressions; and she knew her too well to be surprised, when the maiden replied to her apology only by flinging her arms round her neck, and sobbing on her bosom. Before she could attempt to soothe her, the serenader again struck his instrument, and began chanting a melody of extreme sadness, but to words of such mystical purport, that they instantly engaged her whole attention, in an eager desire to penetrate their meaning. Shall I speak it to the night-wind? Shall I breathe it to the sky? It is spoken in a whisper, It is uttered in a sigh: And the sigh shall be the saddest, And the whisper shall be low, Like the sound of hidden runlets, In their melancholy flow. There's a sigh comes on the west wind-- Hark! it rustles through the leaves, Like the moan----