GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

APART there was a deep untrodden grot,

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ;
Tradition had not nam'd its lonely spot;

But here (methinks) might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore,

Their voice to the Great Spirit :-rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,

And yellow lichens covered all the clime,

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw ;

Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove

As if with instinct living spirit grew,
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;
And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles,-ere yet its symphony begin.