And on the dark wall
Half-seen shadows did fall,

As enhorror'd he onward pass'd.

XIII.

And the storm-fiend's wild rave

O'er the new-made grave,

And dread shadows, linger around.

The Monk call'd on God his soul to save,

And, in horror, sank on the ground.

XIV.

Then despair nerv'd his arm

To dispel the charm,

And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder.

And the fierce storm did swell

More terrific and fell,

And louder peal'd the thunder.

XV.

And laugh'd, in joy, the fiendish throng,
Mix'd with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread.

XVI.

And her skeleton form the dead Nun rear'd,
Which dripp'd with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appear'd,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glar'd,
As he stood within the cell.

XVII.

And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerv'd by fear.-
"I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguish'd pain.-
The grave yawns,-we meet there."

XVIII.

And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,

That in long vibrations shudder'd the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answer'd from hell.

NUMBER 4.—SONG.

I.

How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade!

II.

No cloud along the spangled air,

Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair

The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

III.

Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl;

Along the stillness of the night,

Her melancholy shriekings roll.

IV.

But not alone on Irvyne's tower,
The silver moonbeam pours her ray;

It gleams upon the ivied bower,

It dances in the cascade's spray.

V.

"Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour, when man must cease to be? Why may not human minds unveil

The dim mists of futurity?

VI.

"The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despis'd, neglected, and forlorn,

Sinks the wretch in death at last."

NUMBER 5.-SONG.

I.

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,

As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lull'd for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft, ties to affection so dear.

II.

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?

Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit, that faded away with the breath.

Eternity points in its amaranth bower,

Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,

When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

NUMBER 6.-SONG.

I.

AH! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;

Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
"Stay thy boat on the lake,-dearest Henry, I come."

II.

High swell'd in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;

"I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee."
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!

III.

Oh! dark lower'd the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleam'd through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair?
Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.