Fancy can but feebly conceive, and still less can words describe, the feelings with which the lost men must have beheld their bark drifting away over the face of the waters, and found themselves abandoned in the vast solitude of the ocean. With what agony must they have gazed upon the distant sails, gliding over the deep, but keeping far aloof from the rock of desolation. How must their horrors have been aggravated by the far-off view of their native hills, lifting their lonely peaks above the wave, and awakening the dreadful consciousness that they were still within the grasp of humanity, and yet no arm was stretched forth to save them; while the sun was riding high in the heavens, and the sea basking in his beams below, and Nature looking with reckless smiles upon their dying agonies! As soon as the stupor of horror and amazement had subsided, the party placed the dead bodies in their boat, and, crowding all sail, stood for the Orkneys. They landed at night upon the beach, immediately below the house where the wedding guests were assembled; and there, while debating in what manner to proceed, they were overheard by the insane wanderer, the result of whose visit has already been recorded. She had scarcely left the house, when a low sound of voices was heard approaching. An exclamation of joy broke from the bride. She rushed out of the house with outstretched arms to embrace her lover, and the next moment, with a fearful shriek, fell upon his corpse! With that shriek reason and memory passed away for ever. She was carried back delirious, and died towards morning. The bridal was changed into a burial, and Helen Waters and her lover slept in the same grave! JOHN MALCOLM. (_Adapted._) (Native of Firth, Orkney; 1795-1845.) A LEGEND OF BORAY ISLAND.[1] In the far-off Northern Islands, Where the wild waves ever flow, I have heard a wondrous legend Of the days of long ago. There, amid the circling waters, Boray Isle lies all alone, Silent ever, save at nightfall On the eve of good St. John.[2] Those who in the faith of Odin ’Neath the waves have sunk for aye, Are as sea-beasts doomed to wander Till the dawn of Judgment Day. Once a year on Boray Island They revisit scenes of earth, And, their ancient forms resuming, Hold their wild unhallowed mirth. On the shore their sealskins leaving, They in revels pass the time, Till the midnight hour resoundeth From St. Magnus’ distant chime. At the solemn knell the dancers In wild haste their guise regain, And as seals once more appearing Plunge below the waves again. Long ago a Northern fisher In a storm was left alone, And to Boray Isle was driven On the eve of good St. John.