THE STAKE. 451 
On the horizon, heath-embrown’d, 
With nought visible around 
But a wide and lonely moor, 
Stood, half-hidden by grey moss, 
And the briars growing across, 
A low stone sculptured with a cross, 
And some graven words, which said :— 
“@pon this spot suffered 
Che Lady Clemence Wabasour. 
Pilgrim passing by this wave, 
Hnecl upon the turf, and prave 
Thou into that Cruth be led 
Hor which the fAlartyr’s blood was shed.” 
Spirit! sweet Spirit! who on Heaven’s verge, 
This long time hovering, now, alas! dost seem, 
With white wings glistening in the golden beam 
Of light unrisen on this dark hemisphere, 
Too early ready thy far flight to urge 
Into the invisible ; if yet the surge, 
Moaning around eternity’s dim shore, 
Delay the launching bark prepared to steer 
Beyond’s life’s low horizon ; if once more 
The gale beat back thy pinion, bent to soar 
To paradise emigrant; one who brings 
To thy lov’d ear these rude notes sadly blending, 
Will bless thee for one hour of the attending, 
Ah! how soon to be given to angel strings! 
