Slowly, but safe, the crowded life-boat bore Its precious burden, to the nearing shore-- And as with breathless haste the thankful crew Leapt on the land, all hands were safe but two; But two were wanting, two, and two alone, The Polish Maiden! and the exiled one! They two had linger'd on the Cortées, till The hardy Captain, seeing all must fly, Tore down a light boat; with a dismal cry, And frantic rush, the slender bark they fill. For life--for life--the weary sailors row'd. For life--for life--Oh! 'twas a vain endeavor; The little skiff o'erburden'd with its load, Was slowly sinking in the waves forever-- Ah! which of them, with land in sight, could bear To meet Death thus? Hope makes a coward brave, And they who might have shudder'd in despair, Kept fearlessly above the billowy wave-- The dexterous swimmers, reach'd the life-boat's crew, And Sobieski could have reach'd it too; But in one arm his terror'd child he bore, And with the other battled with the sea: Bravely he toil'd to gain the distant shore; The rest were there already--only he, And his wan daughter, with exhausted breath, Were flying from the watery jaws of Death. At length, the frenzied Pole beheld the land, And eager, with a Father's tender hand, Fondly, he raised Pascobi's drooping head; She trembled not--her terror all had fled-- The Polish maid was with the fearless dead! The distant thunder murmur'd through the air, The lightning gleam'd amid the clouds afar, The hollow wind went whistling--low, away On unknown journies. Light, and lovely day Were brightly dawning on that lonely spot, Where lay the victim of the direful storm, So still--so pale--so beautiful--with not An eye to weep for her. In holy calm, And silent grief, her sire was kneeling by-- Pascobi slept, as free from care as pain-- And 'twere a sin that e'en a father's sigh Should wake that daughter into life again. Once, Sobieski under Poland's sun Had proudly lorded over lands his own-- And now, his Spirit could not stoop to ask A Stranger to bestow on him a grave-- He took his pale child, 'twas a bitter task, And buried her beneath the quiet wave. BALLAD. Far 'neath the dim mountains The daylight dies-- And Heaven is opening Her starry eyes; The Moon o'er the tree-tops Looks down on the stream, Where the castle's broad shadow Sleeps--dark as a dream. From the Oriel-lattice A bright Lady gazed-- Her eyes--sad--though tearless, To heaven upraised. Her brow was all paleness-- Yet beauty dwelt there-- A picture of sorrow With raven dark hair. She marked not the softness Of dim vale and stream-- The mist on the mountain-- The lake's distant gleam-- She saw not the mimic Dew-star in the grass, Nor the pale damp that hung o'er The haunted morass.