She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, And once again the lady of the night Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay; But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away: Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. When to the distant land the youth was sped, A lonely life the moody maiden led. Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk, Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, And fancy, as she paced among the trees, She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. Thus two years glided on in silent grief; The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: Absence had cool'd her love--the impoverish'd flame Was dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came; He offered wealth, and all the joys of life, And the weak maid became another's wife! Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. Sure of her constancy, elate he came, The lovely partner of his soul to claim; Light was his heart, as up the well known way He bent his steps--and all his thoughts were gay. Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, When on his ear the fatal news arose! Chill'd with amazement,--senseless with the blow, He stood a marble monument of woe; Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 'T was night--he sought the river's lonely shore, And traced again their former wanderings o'er. Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, And gazed intently on the stealing flood, Death in his mein and madness in his eye, He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by; Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave-- Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. He knelt.--Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind, The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, And all was peace;--he felt the general calm O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm: When casting far behind his streaming eye, He saw the Grove,--in fancy saw her lie, His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's[3] arms to rest, And all the demon rose within his breast. Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank, And in the calm deceitful current sank. Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, As in the stream he plunged, was heard around: Then all was still--the wave was rough no more, The river swept as sweetly as before; The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, And peace returning brooded o'er the scene.