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Salmon, T. S., III.
Schiller, 341.
Scott, Sir Walter, 148, 289.
Shelley, P. B., 146.
Sheridan, Thomas, 384.
Smith, Horace, 108, 377, 234.
Southey, Robert, 63, 158.
Struthers, John, 180.
Stuart, the Honourable Miss, 251.
Swain, Charles, 37.
Taylor, Jane, 98, 213.
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Thurlow, Lord, 395.
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'ASTLE-OBAN is lost in the darkness of night, For the moon is swept from the starless heaven, And the latest line of lowering light
That linger'd on the stormy even
A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave—
Hath sunk into the weltering grave.
Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
And downwards to the fearful din,
Where Ocean with his thunder shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,
Through the grim abyss that mocks his eye,
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent
A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,
From the edge of the howling battlement.
Therein is a lonesome room,
Undisturb'd as some old tomb,
That, built within a forest glen,
Far from feet of living men,
And shelter'd by its black pine trees
From sound of rivers, lochs, and seas,
Flings back its arched gateway tall
At times to some great funeral !
Noiseless as a central cell
In the bosom of a mountain,
Where the fairy people dwell,
By the cold and sunless fountain!
Breathless as a holy shrine,
When the voice of psalms is shed!
And there upon her stately bed,
While her raven locks recline
O'er an arm more pure than snow,
Motionless beneath her head—
And through her large fair eyelids shine
Shadowy dreams that come and go,
By too deep bliss disquieted-
There sleeps in love and beauty's glow,
The high-born Lady Edderline.
Lo! the lamp's wan fitful light,
Glide-gliding round the golden rim;
Restored to life, now glancing bright,
Now just expiring, faint and dim;
Like a spirit loath to die,
Contending with its destiny.
All dark-a momentary veil
Is o'er the sleeper—now a pale
Uncertain beauty glimmers faint,
And now the calm face of the saint
With every feature reappears,
Celestial in unconscious tears.
Another gleam-how sweet the while
Those pictured faces on the wall
Through the midnight silence smile!
Shades of fair ones, in the aisle
Vaulted the castle cliffs below,
To nothing moulder'd, one and all,.
Ages long ago!
From her pillow, as if driven
By an unseen demon's hand
Disturbing the repose of heaven,
Hath fallen her head. The long black hair,
From the fillet's silken band
In dishevell'd masses riven,
Is streaming downwards to the floor.
Is the last convulsion o'er?
And will that length of glorious tresses,
So laden with the soul's distresses,
By those fair hands in morning light,
Above those eyelids opening bright,
Be braided never more?
No, the lady is not dead,
Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed';
Like a wreck'd corse upon the shore,
That lies until the morning brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;
Or haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,
On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,
Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing,
No fading footmark see that tells
Of that poor unremember'd thing..
Oh dreadful is the world of dreams,
When all that world a chaos seems
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