.
Full many a dismal tale was told,
Of that fam'd spectre ship;
And none were ever known so bold
To watch this nightly trip.

Why did that troubled shade proceed
Along that watery way?
Or what the purpose, or the deed,
Which caus'd her thus to stray?
For good, or bad, did Isabel,
Forsake her dreary grave?
Or was't because she lov'd to sail
On Wye's pellucid wave?

The spectre came to meet her dear,
Lord Hugh--the young and brave;
When dreadful tidings met her ear,
"He'd found a traitor's grave."
When second Edward rul'd this land,
(A wretched prince was he,)
Of favourites he'd a numerous band,
As worthless as could be.

Two noblemen amongst this set
Were hated above all;
And many were the lords who met,
To work the Spencer's fall.
Success attends these foe-men's strife,
Lord Hugh is doom'd to die;
And in his happiest hours of life,
That precious life did fly.

His manly form did never more,
Bless Isabel's fond eyes;
With him--the joys of life were o'er,
For him--the maiden dies.
Yet still the spirit fondly clings,
To what in life has been,
Thus Isabel, it nightly brings
To this beloved scene.

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 d