But when her feet have touch’d the ground,
    With silent, noiseless tread;
  No tender lover there is found,
    He’s number’d with the dead. 
  No more of love the tender strain,
    Falls on her list’ning ear,
  In life—­her joy, was turn’d to pain,
    Her hope—­gave place to fear.

  ’Tis then, that dread laments they hear,
    Who pass by night that way;
  Which the scar’d traveller, so clear,
    Hears till returning day;
  When re-embarks sad Isabel,
    That spectre shade so fair;
  Then dashing in the water’s swell,
    She vanishes in air.

  No trace remains in Sol’s bright ray,
    Of boat or awful spright;
  For grief—­or guilt conceived by day,
    Conspicuous is at night. 
  Thus Isabel’s unearthly woe,
    Remain’d for many years;
  But as our superstitions go,
    So go unfounded fears

CAROLINE MAXWELL.

* * * * *

HARVEST HOME.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

Sir,—­Wishing to add to your numerous accounts of our local customs, I send you a description of the manner of celebrating harvest home in Westmoreland.

The farmers of Appleby, Kirby, Thore, and many of the neighbouring and low towns thereabout, devote the last day of the harvest to mirth and festivity.  The men generally endeavour to get the corn all in pretty early in the day; and at the last cart-load the horses are decked by the men with ears of corn and flowers and ribands; and then the lasses’ straw-bonnets, who, in return, perform the same compliments on them.  Thus they move on through the lanes and roads, till they reach the farm-yard, shouting, “Harvest Home,” and singing songs in their way.  When they reach the farm-yard, they set up an exulting shout, and ale is distributed to them by their master.  About nine o’clock, a supper is prepared for them in their master’s house.  A wheat-sheaf is brought, and placed in the middle of the room, decorated with ribands and flowers, and corn is hung in various parts of the room.  The supper mostly consists of some good old English dish, (of which there is plenty,) and the jolly farmer presides at the head of the table.  After the cloth is cleared, liquor in abundance is brought forward, and the “president” sings, (not a Non Nobis Domine,) but a good, true, mirth-stirring song, and then the fun commences; singing and dancing alternately occupy the evening, and the bottle circulates speedily, and the festival generally breaks up about midnight.

Thus, Mr. Editor, is harvest home spent in that county, and I send you the only account I can furnish of the harvest merriments, hoping some of your correspondents will add to my little mite.

W.H.H.

* * * * *

STANZAS TO, AND IN ILLUSTRATION OF, A LANDSCAPE BY CLAUDE.

(For the Mirror.)