The fairest flower of mortal frame In seven chariots, gilded bright, But there was a ship in the Firth of Forth, Her colours or her name. Her mast was made of beaten gold, And a thousand pennons stream'd behind, As she lay mirror'd in the main, So many rainbows round her play'd With every breeze that blew. And the hailstone shroud it rattled loud, Right over ford and fen, And swathed the flower of the Moril Glen From eyes of sinful men. And the hailstone shroud it wheel'd and row'd, As wan as death unshriven, Like dead cloth of an angel grim, Or winding sheet of heaven. It was a fearsome sight to see Toil through the morning gray, And whenever it reached the comely ship, She set sail and away. She set her sail before the gale, As it began to sing, And she heaved and rocked down the tide, Unlike an earthly thing. The dolphins fled out of her way Into the creeks of fife, And the blackguard seals they yowlit for dread, And swam for death and life. But aye the ship, the bonnie ship, No billow breasted on her prow, And away, and away went the bonnie ship, But whether she went to heaven or hell, [This ballad was written by IIenry Kirke White; a name which it is impossible to pronounce or hear without feeling, with Lord Byron, (English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," 'the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions they were destined to assume.' He was born at Nottingham, on the 21st March, 1785, and died at Cambridge on the 19th Oct. 1806, in his 22nd year; in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that,' in the eloquent language of the noble poct already quoted, would have matured a mind which discase and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued.' His Lordship's beautiful eulogy on Unhappy White,' in the work above-mentioned, is too well known to require insertion here. With regard to the ballad, it would appear from The Remains of Henry Kirke White,' edited by Robert Southey, whose generous assistance of the author while living, and tribute to his memory, after his death, are familiar to all readers, to have first appeared in what his biographer calls the little volume which Henry published in 1803.' It is here taken from Southey's edition of his works above-named, London, 1816--22.1 HE night it was still, and the moon it shone, Serenely on the sea, And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, A maiden full fair to the sight; Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, And turn'd it to deadly white. Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand was the bravest youth And many a month had past away, Full oft she vainly tried to pierce Full oft she thought her lover's bark And every night she placed a light Should the murky tempest lower. But now despair had seized her breast, "O tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace will die." She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, The curlew scream'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Yet still she kept her lonely way, And this was all her cry, "O! tell me but if Bertrand live, And now she came to a horrible rift, And pendant from its dismal top And all within was dark and drear, Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld And as she enter'd the cavern wide, And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, Her foot it slipt, and she stood aghast. Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, And now upon her frozen ear Then furious peals of laughter loud Yet still the maiden onward went, But now a pale blue light she saw, She stood appall'd; yet still the charm Yet each bent knee the other smote, And such a sight as she saw there And such a sight as she saw there |