Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, Drew nearer to the flame, For much she dreaded now to hear Her hapless lover's name. The hag related then the sports Of that eventful day, When on the well contested field Full fifteen thousand lay. She said that she in human gore Above the knees did wade, And that no tongue could truly tell The tricks she there had play'd. There was a gallant featured youth, Who like a hero fought; He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, And every danger sought. And in a vassal's garb disguised, Unto the knight she sues, And tells him she from Britain comes, And brings unwelcome news. That three days ere she had embark'd His love had given her hand Unto a wealthy Thane:--and thought Him dead in Holy Land. And to have seen how he did writhe When this her tale she told, It would have made a wizard's blood Within his heart run cold. Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed; And soon all mangled o'er with wounds He on the cold turf bled. And from his smoking corse she tore His head, half clove in two. She ceased, and from beneath her garb The bloody trophy drew. The eyes were starting from their socks, The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream The maiden gave a spring And from her fearful hiding-place She fell into the ring. The lights they fled--the cauldron sunk, Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom. Insensible the maiden lay Upon the hellish ground, And still mysterious sounds were heard At intervals around. She woke--she half arose--and wild She cast a horrid glare, The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, And all was stillness there. And through an awning in the rock The moon it sweetly shone, And show'd a river in the cave Which dismally did moan. The stream was black, it sounded deep As it rush'd the rocks between, It offer'd well, for madness fired The breast of Gondoline. She plunged in, the torrent moan'd With its accustom'd sound, And hollow peals of laughter loud Again rebellow'd round. The maid was seen no more.--But oft Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour, Along the ocean's side. A BALLAD. Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Ye pelting rains, a little rest; Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, That wring with grief my aching breast. Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd. When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here. My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe What makes its wretched mother weep!