There is a heavenly influence,
A secret spiritual fence,

Circling the soul with present power
In temptation's darkest hour,
Walling it round from outward sin,

While all is soft and pure within.

PART III.

(BEING THE FIFTH AND LAST OF CHRISTAbel.)

HAST thou not seen, world-weary man,
Life's poor pilgrim white and wan,
A gentle beauty for the cheek

Which nothing gives but sorrow,
A sweet expression, soft and weak,
Joy can never borrow?

Where lingering on the pale wet face
The rival tears run their slow race
Each in its wonted furrow;

And patience, eloquently meek,

From the threaten'd stroke unshrinking,

In mild boldness can but speak

The burden of its sadden'd thinking,

"Dreary as to-day has been,

And sad and cheerless yestereen,

'Twill dawn as dark to-morrow!"

Desolate-hearted Christabel,
Hapless, hopeless Christabel,

Nightly tears have dimm'd the lustre
Of thy blue eyes, once so bright,
And, as when dank willows cluster
Weeping over marble rocks,
O'er thy forehead white

Droop thy flaxen locks:

Yet art thou beautiful, poor girl,

As angels in distress,

Yea, comforting the soul, sweet girl,`

With thy loveliness;

For thy beauty's light subdued
Hath a soothing charm,

In sympathy with all things good
That weep for hate and harm;
And none can ever see unmov'd

Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white,
O none have seen, who have not lov'd
The sadly sweet religious light
That doth with pearly radiance shine
From those sainted eyes of thine!

A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,
A hundred horse in the castle-court!
From border-wastes, a weary way,

Through Halegarth wood and Knorren moor,

A mingled numerous array,

On panting palfreys black and grey,

With foam and mud bespatter'd o'er,

Hastily cross the flooded Irt,

And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,

And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Scathwaite,
And now that day is dropping late,

Have passed the drawbridge and the gate.

By thy white flowing beard, and reverend mien,
And gilded harp, and chaplet of green,
And milk-white mare in the castle-yard,
Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard!
And, by thy struggle still to hide
This generous conquest of thy pride,
More than by yon princely train,

And blazon'd banner standing near,
And snorting steed with slacken'd rein,
Hail, O too long a stranger here,
Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall,
Thou noble spirit, most of all,

Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine'

Like aspens tall beside the brook

The stalwart warriors stood and shook,
And each advancing fear'd to look

Into the other's eye;

"Tis fifty years ago to-day

Since in disdain and passion they

Had flung each other's love away
With words of insult high:

How had they long'd and pray'd to meet!
But memories cling; and pride is sweet;
which could be the first to greet

And

The haply scornful other?

What if De Vaux were haughty still, -
Or Leoline's unbridled will

Consented not his rankling ill

In charity to smother?

Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat;
The white lips quiver, the pulses throb,
They stifle and swallow the rising sob,
And there they stand, faint and unmann'd,
As each holds forth his bare right hand!
Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,
All unable to dissemble

Penitence and love confest,

As within each aching breast

The flood of affection grows deeper and stronger, Till they can refrain no longer,

But with,

Oh, my long-lost brother!”

To their hearts they clasp each other,

Vowing in the face of heaven

All forgotten and forgiven!

Then the full luxury of grief

That brings the smothered soul relief,

i

Within them both so fiercely rushed
That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gush'd
A tide of tears, as pure and deep
As children, yea as cherubs weep!

And my old heart danced with the joy of a child,
When out of school he leaps half wild,

To think he could be reconcil'd."