NORMAN ABBEY.

Byron.

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,—
An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare
Mix'd gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal: it lies, perhaps, a little low,
Because the monks preferr❜d a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus, in act to rally

His host, with broad arms, 'gainst the thunder stroke;
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally
The dappled foresters-as day awoke,

The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take
In currents through the calmer water spread
Around the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding,
Its shriller echoes-like an infant made
Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding
Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,

Pursued its course, now gleaming and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

A glorious remnant of the gothic pile,

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd,—a loss to art:

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,

Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,

Twelve saints had once stood, sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne,

When each house was a fortalice-as tell

The annals of full many a line undone,― The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,

The virgin mother of the God-born child, With her Son in her bless'd arms, look'd round,

Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoil'd;

She made the earth below seem holy ground :-
This may be superstition, weak or wild,

But even the faintest relics of a shrine

Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre,

Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
Is musical-a dying accent driven

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given

Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
And harmonized by the old choral wall.

Others, that some original shape or form,

Shaped by decay, perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)

To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.

Sad but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such
The fact:-I've heard it,-once, perhaps, too much.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint,Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,

And here, perhaps, a monster, there a saint:

The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

Don Juan.

THE CASTILIAN NUPTIALS.

And days fled

A cloud came o'er my destiny.

The dream of passion soon was past,
A summer's day may never last;-
Yes, every feeling then knew change,
One only hope was left-revenge.
He wedded with another-tears
Are very vain, and as for fears,
I know them not. I deeply swore,
No lip should sigh where mine before
Had seal'd its vow,-no heart should rest

Upon the bosom mine had prest.

Life had no ill I would not brave,

To claim him, even in the grave!

L. E. L.

FAIR is the form that in yon orange bower,
Like a lone spirit, bends beside the lamp,
Whose silver light is flung o'er clustering rose,
And myrtle with pearl buds, and emerald leaves;
Green moss and azure violets have formed

The floor, and fragrant bloom the canopy,

And perfumed shrubs the pillars, round whose stems
The vine has crept, and mixed its purple fruit
Amid the rich-hued blossoms: citron trees
And beds of hyacinths have sent their sweets
Upon the odorous dew of the night gale,

Which, playing with the trembling lamp, flings round
A changeful light,-now glancing on the flowers,

• Understood to be Miss Landon, the fair author of those deservedly popular poems, "The Improvisatrice," and "The Troubadour."

And brightening every hue,-now lost in shade,
Look out upon the night! There is no star
In beauty visible—the moon is still
Sojourning in her shadowy hall-the clouds

Are thickening round; but though the tempest's wing
Will herald in the morning, all is still,

And calm, and soothing now; no rougher sounds
Than the low murmur of the mountain rill,
And the sweet music of the nightingale,
Are in the air. But a far darker storm,

The tempest of the heart, the evil war
Of fiery passions, is fast gathering

O'er that bright creature's head, whose fairy bower
And fairy shape breathe but of happiness.

She is most beautiful! The richest tint

That e'er with rose light dyed a summer cloud,
Were pale beside her cheek; her raven hair
Falls even to her feet, though fasten'd up
In many a curl and braid, with bands of pearl;
And that white bosom, and those rounded arms,
Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill

Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty.
Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes,
- And that fair brow is troubled! She is young;
But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence,
And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have fled
A breast, the sanctuary of unhallowed fires,
That love has led to guilt. At each light stir
Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf,
A deeper crimson burnt upon her cheek:
Each pulse beat eagerly, for every sound
To her was Fernand's step; and then she sunk,
Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb
Of sadness only love and fear can know.

The night pass'd on-she touch'd the silver chords,