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In the temple of God lay slain;

All but Aodh, the last culdee,
But bound with many an iron chain,

Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh's bride?

Rocks of the ocean flood!
Plunged she not from your heights in pride,

And mocked the men of blood ?
Then Ulvsagre and his bands

In the temple lighten their banquet up, And the print of their blood-red hands

Was left on the altar cup. 'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, “ Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew

dim
That lighted their revelry.
But the torches again burnt bright,

And brighter than before,
When an aged man of majestic height

Entered the temple door.
Hushed was the reveller's sound,

They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the

Of his footstep's measured tread.
Nor word was spoken by one beholder, [der,
While he flung his white robe back on his shoul-
And stretching his arms—as eath

Unriveted Aodh’s bands,
As if the gyves had been a wreath

Of willows in his hands.
All saw the stranger's similitude
To the ancient statue's form;

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The Saint before his own image stood,

And grasped Ulvsagre's arm.
Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver

Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,

They lifted the spear and sword,
And levelled their spears in rows.
But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier signed,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt,
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,

Their lifted weapons dropt.
The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre willed it not,
He came and stood at the statue's foot,

Spell-riveted to the spot,
Till hands invisible shook the wall,

And the torturing image was dashed
Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crushed as millstone crushes the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each

Of the Heathen trembled round,
And the pauses amidst his speech

Were as awful as the sound :

« Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” (he cricd,)

“ And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died

That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather bim bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone

That drank his heathen blood.

These are the spoils from Iona's sack,
The only spoils ye shall carry back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword

Shall be withered by palsy's shock,
And I come in the name of the Lord

To deliver a remnant of his flock.”

A remnant was called together,

A doleful remnant of the Gael, [hither And the Saint in the ship that had brought him

Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand,

And looked on them silently ;
Safe from their hiding-places came
Orphans and mothers, child and dame :
But, alas ! when the search of Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given,
For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,

And her spirit was in heaven.

NOTES

ON THE

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

PART I.

Note (a) And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron to his native

shore. The following picture of his own distress, given by Byron in his simple and interesting narrative, justifies the description in page 10.

After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus : A day or two aster, we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the -Indians were obliged to take every thing out of their canoes, and carry it over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the northward; here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp; and we had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it, Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of,

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