"LALLA ROOKH," A POEM, BY T. MOORE, ESQ. "OH! best of delights, as it every where is, To be near the loved one; what a rapture is his, Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the lake of CASHMERE, with that one by his side! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent son of ACBAR*

When, from power and pomp and the trophies of war,
He flew to the valley, forgetting them all,

With the Light of the Haram, his young NOURNAHAL.
When free and uncrowned as the conqueror 1oved,
By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved,
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch
From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match;
And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world!

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss;
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here, and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of Heaven in his dreams!"
The Light of the Haram,

* Jehauguire was the son of the great Acbar.

MY COTTAGE.

MY cot is called the sweetest cot
Of all the woodland plain,
And mine is deemed a happy lot,
By every nymph and swain.

They little think that loved retreat
May be the house of care;
They little think in cot so sweet,
That grief may harbour there!

Here blooms, 'tis true, the fragrant rose,
And woodbines twine around;
The perfumed air with incense glows,
And daisies paint the ground.

The blackbird's deep and mellow note
Floats on the gentle breeze;
The linnet strains his little throat,
In varied song to please.

But what are nature's charms to me?
'In vain the roses blow!

In vain the woodbine climbs the tree!
In vain the daisies grow!

Aud ah! how vain the blackbird's art,
And linnet's jocund lay!

Music is torture to this heart,

That once was light and gay.

For, while they warble through the grove, In solitude I pine;

Each little songster has his love,

But where, alas! is mine?

While other maids my cottage eye,
And praise each beauty there,
Ah! one there is that passes by,.
Nor calls the picture fair.

"Tis she has stolen my roses' sweets,
On her fair check they shine;
The lily with the snow drop meets,
Upon her neck divine.

Oh! come Maria, smile again,

My long lost peace restore!

Oh, come thyself, and grief and pain
Shall hauut my cot no more!

London, March 9th, 1819.

ULRIC THE BOLD,

From the German.

EUSTACE.

HAVE ye heard of the Spectre of Brokenberge high,
Whose tall shaggy form seems to reach to the sky?
He roams through the forest of Harz all the night,
And is seen on the Broken at dawning of light.
The king of the waste, and the king of the mine,
His steps he supports with an uprooted pine;
On his huge matted head an oak garland is placed,
And a cincture of oak leaves encircles his waist.

Oh, shun the fell spectre with caution and care,
He's the foe of mankind and his gifts prove a snare';
He assumes not unfrequent a hunter's disguise,
To deceive the unwary with art and with lies.

Some have bartered their souls for his gifts in their need:

He gave to Sir Ecbert that matchless black steed,
Which at Bremen's high Joustings the prize bore away;
But the knight and the horse disappeared from that
day.

The peasants around say he's gentle and kind,
But these he assumes as a covert or blind.

Have ye heard the strange story of Ulric the bold,
How he fell by the lures of the fiend and his gold?

Behold! where yon ruin in majesty frowns

'O'er the vale, from that hill whose broad summit it crowns;

"Twas the Castle of Ulric, when high in his pride, His domains spread around it extensive and wide.

For a particular account of that optical illusion, see the article Brokenberge" Encyclopædia Londinensis, Vol. 3. Or the Pocket Magazine, Vol. I. p. 318.

T

Those halls which resounded with music of yore,
Through the ruins the winter winds sullenly roar;
O'er their floors where the masquers' feet deftly did
pass,

The briar bush spreads, and high waves the rank grass.

At the lone hour of midnight, tradition reports,
Bad spirits repair to these mouldering courts;
The Spectre of Brokenberge ever is there,

And his wild peals of laughter ring loud on the air.

Bold Ulric's poor sire was a cutter of wood,
In the forest of Harz, where his lone cottage stood;
His sons were compelled the same course to pursue,
And Ulric when young was a wood-cutter too.
Though Ulric was bold, yet his heart was depraved,
For pleasures and wealth he unceasingly craved :
By means good or bad his desires to obtain,

No scruples of conscience his soul could restrain.
'Twas said that the Brokenberge spectre, of old,
Had enriched some poor peasants with jewels and gold;
Though he knew with those gifts a curse lingered be-
hind,

The desire to possess them still ran through his mind.

A holy black friar, inspired from above,

To warn all the district round Brokenberge strove;
He bade them beware of this spectre so fell,

Whose gifts were obtained from the monarch of hell.
Young Ulric, enraged at the preacher's discourse,
Sought to silence his zeal by wild outrage and force;
A crowd of fierce miscreants joined in the fray,
And with curses and blows drove the friar away.
Soon after this impious scene was displayed,
One night, while employed in their wood-cutting trade,
Bold Ulric and brothers must take it in turns

To watch, while the charcoal fire steadily burns.

The first that held watch on that wonderful night,
Beheld the moon shining serenely and bright,
When lo! a strange object portentous appears,
Which filled him with awe and awakened his fears.