of night. The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife The guiltless baby struggled into life.— As night drew on, around her bed a band Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand; In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, Intent to expiate her awful crime. Their prayers were fruitless.—As the midnight came A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. They slept till in the blushing eastern sky The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye; Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled; And never more the weeping train were doom'd To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd.

The neighbouring rustics told that in the night They heard such screams as froze them with affright; And many an infant, at its mother's breast, Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. And even now, upon the heath forlorn, They show the path down which the fair was borne, By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave.

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets In the drear silence of these dark retreats; And even now, with melancholy power, Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans On the attendant legend of the scenes. This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods; This, as the distant cataract swells around, Gives a romantic cadence to the sound; This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume: These are thy charms, the joys which these impart Bind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart.

Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day; Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views; Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites, I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, Renounce the wish which 

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