112 HENRY KIRKE white's POEMS. 



And througli an awning in the rock, 

 The moon it sweetly shone, 



And showed a river in the cave 

 Which dismally did moan. 



The stream was black, it sounded deep 

 As it rushed the rocks between. 



It offered well, for madness fired 

 The breast of Gondoline. 



She plunged in, the torrent moaned 

 With its accustomed sound 



And hollow peals of laughter loud 

 Again rebellowed round. 



The maid was seen no more. — But oft 

 Her ghost is known to glide, 



At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 

 Along the ocean's side. 



A BALLAD. 



Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds, 



Ye pelting rains a little rest ; 

 Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 



That wring with grief my aching breast. 



Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 

 To triumph o'er an artless maid : 



Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 



To leave the breast by him betrayed. 



When exiled from my native home, 

 He should have wiped the bitter tear : 



Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 

 A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 



My child moans sadly in my arms, 

 The winds they will not let it sleep ; 



Ah, little knows the helpless babe, 



What makes its wretched mother weep^ 



