I 
 
 M 
 
 
 
THE 
 
 Minstrel of the North ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CUMBRIAN JLEGENBS. 
 
 POETICAL MISCELLANY 
 
 OF 
 
 iUfleirtrari), &otyit, stria SUmtaitfc Cales* 
 
 BY J. STAGG, ESQ. 
 
 Upon the summit of the hill 
 
 Along the margin of the lake, 
 Or by the windings of the rill, 
 
 Wild Fancy may her rambles take ; 
 Or 'midst the ruins once renown'd, 
 
 The cloister, or the dreary cell, 
 The food of Genius may be found, 
 
 For there the Muses love to dwell. 
 
 MANCHESTER: 
 
 PRINTED BY MARK WARDIE, BOTTOM OF MARKET-STREET, 
 
 FOR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 AND SOLD BY J. BLACKLOCK, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 LONDON. 
 
 1816. 
 
GiFT 
 
TO HIS GRACE 
 
 i 
 
 rjffi 
 
 DUKE OF NORFOLK. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 J_ HE universal benevolence, and suavity of 
 manners, which so justly characterise your 
 Grace, could alone have emboldened me to 
 present myself to your attention. Your un- 
 common partiality to tjie inhabitants of, and 
 to every thing connected with, the county of 
 Cumberland, is the only motive which has 
 prompted the author (a native of that county) 
 to offer this Work to your protection and 
 patronage. Upon its merits, my Lord, I am 
 silent. Unaided, and unknown in the great 
 world, I have occasion for, and do solicit, 
 your patronage. The avowal which I had the 
 
 L 460 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 pleasure of hearing you make, at the last 
 Cumberland Anniversary, of your esteem 
 for my native country and countrymen, com- 
 bined with your Grace's goodness on every 
 other occasion, leave me no room to doubt 
 that you will pardon this application, pre- 
 sented with the profoundest respect, by, 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Your very humble, 
 
 and obedient servant, 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
PREFATORY APOLOGY. 
 
 .A.S the privation of sight has naturally pre- 
 cluded me from attending, with any degree of ac- 
 curacy, either to the composition, correction, or 
 revision, of this work, I doubt not, nay, I am cer- 
 tain, that a number of errors must have inevitably 
 escaped my observation, as well in the transcrip- 
 tion as in the typography ; but when the candid 
 and benevolent public come to reflect on the num- 
 berless difficulties with which I have had to com- 
 bat, I hope they will not long hesitate to pardon 
 and overlook the many imperfections they will 
 necessarily meet with. 
 
 If this volume were destined to fall into the 
 hands of the critics alone, I should have but 
 very little hopes of mercy ; as I am sensible that 
 the Judges in Literature, like those in the Law, 
 are bound, by the duties of their profession, to 
 give judgment impartially, though lenity is much 
 more becoming in both than severity. But it is not 
 to these literary arbitrators I refer myself. The 
 public are my judges ; and to that tribunal alone 
 I shall make my appeal. If, from the numerous 
 
PREFATORY APOLOGY. 
 
 and respectable persons who have honoured me 
 with their attention and patronage, I may be al- 
 lowed to form any presage, I would venture to 
 predict, that the reception of my book would not 
 be the most unfavourable. How far the general 
 tenor of these pieces may be approved, I shall 
 not presume to say ; but the present perversion 
 of taste, and the romance mania so prevalent now- 
 a-days, almost demonstrate to me, that Essays of 
 a more serious and regular nature would not be 
 universally received with such a degree of encou- 
 ragement. The avidity with which the works 
 of Lewis, Wadsworth., Southey, and Scott, are at 
 present perused, determined me to attempt this 
 species of composition ; and as there are a great 
 many historical and romantic legends existing in 
 Cumberland ; with a number of other Gothic sto- 
 ries prevalent in the North, the scenes and subjects 
 of which are unfixed and unconnected with any 
 particular spot, I felt myself convinced, that a 
 versification of these stories, which in some man- 
 ner were topographical, and to localize others, 
 would not prove ungratifying to a great number 
 of readers, especially the admirers of Gothic and 
 romantic literature. How far 1 have been suc- 
 cessful, the world will soon inform me; and on its 
 candour and clemency are founded all my expec- 
 
PREFATORY APOLOGY. 
 
 tations. I know there is a great disparity in the 
 pieces, and that some are very inferior to others 
 in point of poetical merit ; but the flattering as- 
 surances I had from many of my friends, previous 
 to my ever thinking of publishing them, together 
 with the encomiums and encouragement given me 
 by several members of the University of Oxford, 
 during my stay in that city, made me resolve to 
 venture myself and my work on the candour and 
 benevolence of the public. I have a number of 
 pieces yet untranscribed, and several others in a 
 half digested state. I purpose speedily to publish 
 them in a second volume, or else to republish the 
 whole in two volumes, with appropriate annota- 
 tions, corrections, and emendations. 
 
 To the numerous and respectable list of Gentle- 
 men, who have honoured me with their subscrip- 
 tions, I shall ever confess the highest obligation, 
 and am, with the profoundest respect, 
 
 Their most obliged, 
 
 And very humble servant, 
 
 J. STAGG. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Hermit of Rockcliffe Page 1 
 
 The Rose of Corby 59 
 
 Sir Adam of Crook-Dake 90 
 
 Arthur's Cave 105 
 
 The M<'*sen*er of Death ~. 112 
 
 The White Woman 118 
 
 The Water Spirit ..' 123 
 
 Jooroy Brown and Granny Bell 130 
 
 The Harper 135 
 
 The Frightful Beauty 155 
 
 Allen and Ellen 164 
 
 The Mountain Maniac 171 
 
 MRrion Mackye 184 
 
 The Fratricide 191 
 
 The Pilgrim 194 
 
 Fatal Omens 204 
 
 Jessica, Joe, and the Soldier 217 
 
 The Death of O. fin 220 
 
 TheVampyre 228 
 
 A Fairy Tale 236 
 
 The Sword 248 
 
 The Earth King 260 
 
 Lord Baldwin 276 
 
 The Foundling .. 291 
 
 The Unfortunate Wanderer 305 
 
 Olo the Proud 311 
 
 Spectre of Weigh Hill 315 
 
 Ned Staunton 332 
 
 Mary the Maid of the Moor 343 
 
 Elegy on Johanna Southcott 348 
 
THE 
 
 MINSTREL OF THE NORTH. 
 
 THE 
 
 HERMIT OF ROCKCLIFFE. 
 
 A LEGENDARY TALE. 
 
 Sfn if our Cantos* 
 
 T 
 
 ^V*^*V ++■++*++ r 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 HE ev'ning lower'd, the wind blew hard, 
 And furious roar'd the tide ; 
 Fast homeward to his humble shed 
 The weary ploughman hied. 
 
 And madly Esk* and Eden ran, 
 
 Swoll'n by the falling rain, 
 When Alfred led fair Imogene, 
 
 Bewilder'd, o'er the plain. 
 
 *The Esk and Eden, two lirers ; the one rising in Westmore- 
 land, and the other in the southern part of Scotland ; their waters 
 join a little ahove Bowness, in Cumberland, and, hy their confluence, 
 and the junction of some other streams, constitute what is called Sol- 
 way Frith. 
 
THE HERMIT 
 
 On either side a river roar'd ; 
 
 Dismay'd, they walk'd between : 
 For neither to the right nor left 
 
 One glimpse of light was seen ! 
 
 But, lost amidst surrounding gloom, 
 With unknown steps they sped ; 
 
 Unconscious of the way they went, 
 And stupified with dread. 
 
 At length, when sinking with their fears, 
 They spied a glimm'ring light ; 
 
 Which seem'd at no great distance thence, 
 And cheer'd their longing: sight. 
 
 Young Alfred call'd with all his might, 
 The rocks re-echoed round; 
 
 An answering' voice return'd the call, 
 With kind inviting sound. 
 
 o 
 
 'Twas Edmund, hermit of the hill, 
 In Rockcliffe known of yore, 
 
 Whose hospitable cottage still 
 
 Receiv'd the wand'ring poor. 
 
 Once noted was this holy man, 
 
 For piety and pray'r ; 
 T' instruct the blind, and aid the weak, 
 
 Was his peculiar care. 
 
OF ROCKCUFFE. 
 
 The wand'ring pair pursued the light, 
 And soon attain'd the hill; 
 
 The friendly Hermit at his cell 
 Receiv'd them with good will. 
 
 B 
 
 For them, with heaps of added turf, 
 He mends his homely fire; 
 
 Their sufferings and their wants to sooth, 
 Appear' d his sole desire. 
 
 With frugal, but with wholesome food, 
 The table soon was spread, 
 
 And whilst they ate, their kindly host 
 Prepar'd their humble bed. 
 
 And now, refresh'd, the cheerful group 
 In various converse join'd ; 
 
 The angry storm that howl'd without, 
 No more the pilgrims mind. 
 
 The cautious hermit then began 
 
 To ask the youthful pair, 
 By what misfortune or mischance 
 
 So late they travell'd there. 
 
 When thus, young Alfred soft replied, 
 " Most rev'rend father wait 
 
 With patience, and th' eventful tale 
 To you I will relate. 
 
THE HERMIT 
 
 " Since Bannockbourn's* unhappy day, 
 
 The Scots, but ill at rest, 
 Of England's weakness well aware, 
 
 The borders sore infest. 
 
 " Poor Cumberland, the most expos'd, 
 
 Has felt in many a fray; 
 Our towns they burn, our flocks and herds 
 
 By force they drive away. 
 
 " Three days are scarcely past and gone, 
 
 Since a ferocious band, 
 Of wild freebooters from the North, 
 
 Invaded Cumberland. 
 
 " Thro' Brough the bold banditti sped, 
 Rude rapine mark'd their course, 
 
 To Orton, and to Dalston next, 
 
 For none could check their force. 
 
 " As in their unresisted route 
 
 Before them all recoil, 
 And of our cattle, and our corn, 
 
 They swept a mighty spoil. 
 
 * B;.nnockboum, near Stirling 1 ; where was fought the memo- 
 rable battle between the English, commanded by Edward the Se- 
 cond, and the S.ots by Robert Bruce, in which the former, tlwugh 
 upwards of a hundred thousand strong, were defeated, and totally 
 routed by the latter, though not above thirty thousand. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFPE. 
 
 " To brave Sir Barnard's hall they march'd, 
 
 Which undefended lay, 
 And his fair daughter Imogene 
 
 They, captive, bore away. 
 
 " Alarm and horror loudly rang" 
 Throughout the ravag'd land ; 
 
 For no collected force had we, 
 These ruffians to withstand. 
 
 "At length the neighbouring barons heard: 
 Enrag'd, their powers they rose; 
 
 And forth their num'rous vassals led, 
 Their progress to oppose. 
 
 " But, when the Northerns understood 
 That Cumbria's chieftains led 
 
 An army forth, to check their course, 
 To Scotland back they sped. 
 
 " By Bowness bent their tardy march; 
 
 Their plunder went before ; 
 And, fording through the Solway, soon 
 
 Regain'd the Scottish shore. 
 
 " Nor long behind the English force 
 
 In idle dalliance staid ; 
 But, urg'd by fury and revenge, 
 
 With speed for Scotland made. 
 
tf THE HERMIT 
 
 " Nor long we vainly sought the foe, 
 Who slowly onward wound ; 
 
 And, sore encumber' d by their spoils, 
 Had gain'd but little ground. 
 
 " At our approach, like base-born slaves, 
 Their plunder they forsook ; 
 
 Nor far the cowards we pursu'd, 
 But all the spoil re- took. 
 
 " All, save the lovely Imogene, 
 Who, held by ruffian force, 
 
 A fierce freebooter, screaming, bore 
 Away upon his horse. 
 
 " With love and vengeance doubly fir'd, 
 
 T urg'd my nimble steed ; 
 And, turning by a nearer path, 
 
 Pursued them with all speed. 
 
 " Soon the bold ravisher I charg'd, 
 
 For, by one deadly blow, 
 My faulchion trench'd his sever' d crest, 
 
 And lifeless laid him low ! 
 
 " Half dead with horror and derpair, 
 
 The rescued maid I bore 
 Triumphant to the place, where late 
 
 We had encamp'd before. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 
 
 " But how was I surpris'd and vex'd, 
 
 To find our party gone, 
 And we, amidst a hostile land, 
 
 Unsuccour'd, left alone. 
 
 " The western sun o'er Criffel's* brow 
 Glanc'd his departing ray ; 
 
 What should be done ! — 'the foe was near, 
 And dang'rous was delay. 
 
 ** Unknown, unaided, and forlorn, 
 
 We left the fated place ; 
 And, back to Cumbria, by the route 
 
 We went, our way retrace. 
 
 " But, as athwart the moorland waste, 
 
 The way was ill to find, 
 With moss and quagmire interspers'd, 
 
 1 left my horse behind. 
 
 " With Phoebus' last departing ray, 
 We forded thro' the Sarke; t 
 
 But ere we well had passed the Esk, 
 'Twas grown completely dark. 
 
 * Criffel, a very high mountain in the south-west borders of 
 Scotland. 
 
 f Sarke, a small river which empties itself into the Esk near 
 Gretna Green, and which, for a few miles in that neighbourhood, 
 divides Scotland from England. 
 
THE HERMIT 
 
 " When quite bewilder' d in despair, 
 
 We trac'd the sandy coast; 
 And, bat for your directing- light, 
 
 Had certainly been lost. 
 
 " But, since your hospitable cell 
 
 A kind asylum lends, 
 Our future gratitude, I hope, 
 
 Shall make you full amends. 
 
 " Our home, if heav'n permit, we may 
 Reach with to-morrow's light ; 
 
 And Imogene again shall glad 
 An anxious father's sight." 
 
 " But who art thou, advent'rous youth?" 
 The rev'rend Hermit cried ; 
 
 " What is thy lineage, to what house 
 Art thou by birth allied ? 
 
 " For, if from actions aught we may 
 
 Of pedigree divine, 
 Thine would bespeak thee of a class 
 
 Above the vulgar line." 
 
 To whom, young Alfred, courteous youth. 
 
 Thus modest made reply — 
 " Of no distinguish'd high descent 
 
 Or family am I. 
 
OP ROCKCLTFPE. 9 
 
 " In fact, my birth is quite obscure, 
 
 My origin is low ; 
 That I the parents never knew 
 
 To whom I being- owe. 
 
 " A father's kindness I ne'er felt, 
 Nor shar'd a mother's fears, 
 
 For in Sir Barnard's hall I've liv'd 
 From my most infant years." 
 
 " Alas, my son !" the Hermit cried, 
 " How like my own, thy fate ! 
 
 But may it never be thy lot 
 
 To know my wretched state ! 
 
 " For mine has been a life of woe 
 
 Eventful as severe, 
 From my nativity till now 
 
 That you behold me here. 
 
 " And since the ardent flame of love, 
 
 So plainly is display'd, 
 That in thy youthful bosom burns, 
 
 Towards that beauteous maid; 
 
 " Perhaps my more than common tale 
 
 To thee may useful prove, 
 
 And caution thee to shun those ills 
 
 That spring from misplac'd love, 
 c 
 
10 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Though the recital may produce 
 To mem'ry new-born pain, 
 
 Yet, for your vantage, will I tell 
 My tale of woes again. 
 
 THE HERMITS TALE. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 c 
 
 HILD of obscurity, and doom'd 
 Thro' life to feel distress, 
 My infancy commenc'd in woe, 
 Nor age has suffer' d less. 
 
 " As on a fair autumnal morn, 
 Sir Michael of the Moor 
 
 Arose, to join the cheerful chace, 
 He found me at his door ; 
 
 " Within a wicker-basket stow'd, 
 And wrapt with curious care ; 
 
 V medal, pendant from my neck, 
 The name of Edmund bear. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 11 
 
 " But none could tell who brought me there, 
 
 Or guess from whence I came ; 
 The only information left 
 
 Was barely of my name. 
 
 " The knight he took me to his hall, 
 
 And gave me to his wife, 
 And, with a parent's fondness, watch'd 
 
 My helpless infant life. 
 
 " Nor in my education aught, 
 
 Or pastime ever spar'd ; 
 For I, in common with his own; 
 
 Each fond indulgence shar'd. 
 
 " Meanwhile, brought up with fost'ring care, 
 
 To manhood fast I grew, 
 Each manly art and exercise 
 
 Accustom'd to pursue. 
 
 " Full fast, full fleet, without alloy, 
 
 My years of youthhood run, 
 For, till fourteen, had I suppos'd 
 
 Myself Sir Michael's son. 
 
 " Indeed, his kindness and his care 
 
 So taught me to believe ; 
 And, till the fatal truth I knew, 
 
 I ne'er had cause to grieve. 
 
12 THE HERMIT 
 
 " But, when I luckless came to know 
 Th' obscureness of my name, 
 
 My youthful ardour fled, and left 
 My cheek suffus'd with shame. 
 
 " In solitude I mourn 1 d my lot, 
 In silence sigh'd my woe, 
 
 And all from Providence I sued 
 Was, but myself to know. 
 
 " With kindly care Sir Michael strove. 
 My sorrows to suppress, 
 
 And each amusing effort tried, 
 To sooth my sad distress. 
 
 " A thousand arts to lull my grief, 
 My gen'rous patron tried, 
 
 And wheresoe'er the Baron went, 
 I still was by his side. 
 
 " The brave Sir Guy de Morville once, 
 
 So chane'd it to befall, 
 My noble foster-father had 
 
 Invited to his hall. 
 
 " As to promote my happiness, 
 Seem'd chiefly his intent, 
 
 So since the visit promis'd fair, 
 To Brough with him I went. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 13 
 
 " Sir Guy de Morville was a knight 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 That England's realm a braver peer 
 
 Possess'd not in his day. 
 
 " The grandson of the brave Sir Hugh,* 
 
 Our second Henry's friend, 
 By whom imperious Becket met 
 
 His just but tragic end. 
 
 " Near Brough his stately castle stood, 
 
 Magnificent in show, 
 Whose lofty towers defiance wav'd 
 
 To each invading: foe. 
 
 " Around his num'rous vast domains 
 
 Extended widely lay, 
 For half of spacious Cumberland 
 
 Confess'd his mighty sway. 
 
 " Tho' far around his manors spread, 
 
 Tho' hosts his subjects were, 
 His hospitality excell'd 
 
 His opulence by far. 
 
 *Hugh de Morville, one of those who assisted in the assassina- 
 tion of Becket, at Canterbury; his residence was chiefly at a castle 
 at Brough, or Burgh, five miles west of Carlisle, where yet re- 
 mains an entire tower ; it is of the same form so commonly found in 
 the, North of England and many parts of Scotland, i. e. quadran- 
 
14 THE HERMIT 
 
 " With my indulgent patron here, 
 
 Right courteously [ far'd, 
 And in the pleasures of the place 
 
 An ample portion shar'd. 
 
 " Each kindly striving 1 to remove 
 The pressure of my thought, 
 
 Whilst every new successive day 
 New entertainment brought. 
 
 " Sometimes along the spacious marsh 
 
 We chas'd the nimble deer, 
 Or else in angling spent the day, 
 
 On Eden's waters clear. 
 
 " Or sometimes with the baying hounds, 
 The neighboring woods explore, 
 
 And from the shelt'ring thicket drive 
 The fierce and bristly boar. 
 
 " Thus, whilst at Brougb, each coming day 
 Brought scenes of fresh delight, 
 
 And balls, and various modes of mirth, 
 Concurred to cheer the night. 
 
 gular. At present it constitutes the steeple of the parish-church of 
 ihat place. This casile had, probably, been destroyed when the 
 Scots, under the command of Robert Bruce, made their incursion 
 into Cumberland, A. R. iGth Ed. II. 1323 or 4. 
 
OP ROCKCLIFFE. 16 
 
 " By these my wonted gloom appear' ti 
 
 To be dispell'd apace, 
 And gay hilarity and mirth 
 
 Establish' d in its place. 
 
 " I now had reach'd my eighteenth year, 
 
 And was by all confest 
 To be of an engaging mein, 
 
 And person too, possess'd. 
 
 <; But, conscious of my birth obscure, 
 
 My views had stinted scope, 
 And timid diffidence repell'd 
 
 The very hand of hope. 
 
 " It chanc'd one night the gay Sir Guy 
 
 An entertainment made, 
 For our amusement, which compris'd 
 
 A ball and masquerade. 
 
 " Full many a Lord and Lady came, 
 
 In gallant garb and gay, 
 Nor could Carnarvon's* court then boast 
 
 Of splendour more display. 
 
 * The surname of Edward TI. so called from being born in Car- 
 narvon Castle, in Wales. 
 
16 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Their blithest airs the minstrels play'd, 
 
 The vaulted roofs resound; 
 With mirthful measures, thro' the hall, 
 
 The dancers shift around. 
 
 " The laugh, the song, their heartfelt joy, 
 
 Full easy might betray : 
 Nor discontinued were those sports 
 
 Until the dawn of day. 
 
 " Amongst the ladies that were there, 
 
 Was one of graceful mein, 
 Her noble stature and her air 
 
 Might well have grae'd a queen. 
 
 " Tho' love, as yet, had never play'd 
 
 Around my youthful heart, 
 Yet now, I made myself assured, 
 
 I felt its poignant dart. 
 
 " The more I dane'd, the more I talk'd, 
 
 With this engaging dame, 
 The more convine'd was I my breast 
 
 Had caught the furious flame. 
 
 " With dancing tir'd, and warm with wine, 
 
 I press'd the lovely fair 
 Awhile to leave the busy train. 
 
 And breathe the open air. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. ]T 
 
 M All-yielding to my utmost wish, 
 
 She left the jocund throng, 
 And thro' the garden's fragrant walks 
 
 Well pleas'd we stroll'd along. 
 
 " At length we reach'd a secret bow'r, 
 
 Amid the thick'ning grove, 
 Where we indulg'd in each excess 
 
 Of fond, but lawless love. 
 
 " With strange emotions back I led 
 
 My charmer to the hall, 
 And with the jovial groupe resum'd 
 
 The pastimes of the ball. 
 
 " But, what confusion in my face 
 
 Must ev'ry eye have known, 
 Had not my mask conceal'd the blush 
 
 Which conscience would have shown ! 
 
 " At length the rosy tinge of morn 
 
 Illum'd the mountains' heads, 
 The weary wantons quit their sports, 
 
 And, yawning, seek their beds. 
 
 " I to my wonted chamber went, 
 
 But here 1 found no rest ; 
 The mingled pangs of guilt and love 
 
 So occupied my breast. 
 
18 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Long ere the castle-bell had rung, 
 
 My pillow I forsook ; 
 And to the arbour in the grove 
 
 A wistless saunter took. 
 
 " In contemplation wrapp'd profound, 
 My hapless fate I mourn'd ; 
 
 Whilst in my heart the torch of love 
 With fiercer ardour burn'd. 
 
 " Should she, the object of my love, 
 Once come to know my state, 
 
 Full well I knew that all my hopes 
 In her must terminate. 
 
 " My face, assisted by my mask, 
 
 I carefully conceal'd ; 
 Certain, with shame t' have been repuls'd, 
 
 If that had been reveal'd. 
 
 " But then, the cause that favour'd me 
 
 Now added to my woe ; 
 It hinder' d me from knowing her, 
 
 Whom most I wish'd to know. 
 
 " Back to the castle I repaired, 
 
 And enter' d by the hall j 
 The company at breakfast sat ; 
 
 I look'd— -I notic'd all. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 19 
 
 ° But all in vain inquiry prov'd, 
 
 Or passion made me blind ; 
 For her the most for whom I sought, 
 
 Her no where could 1 find. 
 
 M But now the cruel fatal time 
 
 For our departure come; 
 It follow'd, that I must of course, 
 
 Attend Sir Michael home. 
 
 " With doleful heart, and downcast eye, 
 
 I left the place behind, 
 Whilst burning love and black despair 
 
 United in my mind. 
 
 " No lover, e'er before, thought I, 
 
 Thus cruelly was cross' d ; 
 To find a treasure, and the same, 
 
 In finding, to be lost. 
 
 " For her in secret long I pin'd, 
 
 And search as useless made, 
 Till time, that conquers ev'ry ill, 
 
 That too, at length, allay'd. 
 
 " Tho' ocean into mountains rise, 
 
 When tortur'd by the wind, 
 In time the conflict will subside — 
 
 So fares it with the mind. 
 
■20 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Sir Michael's kindness to my cares, 
 The best of balsams prov'd, 
 
 And time compell'd me to forget 
 That ever I had lov'd. 
 
 " Full sixteen years I calmly pass'd 
 
 In philosophic joy, 
 Nor e'er one incident occurr'd 
 
 That quiet to annoy. 
 
 " Not but a thought of former times, 
 Would sometimes fill my head ; 
 
 But, like a recollected dream, 
 Soon these ideas fled. 
 
 " About this time, to Lowther Hall,* 
 By old Sir Michael sent, 
 
 All gaily mounted and array'd, 
 With lightsome heart I went. 
 
 " Thro' lnglewood my journey lay, 
 A forest long and drear, 
 
 But, clad in armour cap-a-pee, 
 My bosom felt no fear. 
 
 " But ere I had proceeded far 
 Along the lonely course, 
 
 * Lowther Hall, in Westmoreland, the seat of the Right Honour- 
 able the Earl of Lonsdale. 
 
OP ROCKCLIFFE, 21 
 
 Four villains from a thicket rush'd, 
 And dragg'd me from my horse, 
 
 " Resistance little could avail, 
 
 All courage was in vain, 
 They robb'd and stript me of my clothes, 
 
 And left me in the lane. 
 
 " Unaided thus, and closely bound, 
 
 Sore bruis'd — in sad dismay, 
 Expos' d amid the winter's storm, 
 
 Beneath a hedge 1 lay. 
 
 ** When Providence, whose guardian eye 
 
 Still watches our distress, 
 Sent Lancelot, of Eden side, 
 
 My suff'rings to redress. 
 
 *' Assisted by his faithful train, 
 
 He rais'd me from the ground, 
 And, with officious kindly care, 
 
 Tied up each bleeding wound. 
 
 " Then raising me, all deadly pale. 
 
 They plac'd me on a steed, 
 And Armthwaite Castle* being near, 
 
 There carried me with speed. 
 
 • Armthwaite Castle, the seat of the late (i. H. Melbourne, Esq. 
 
22 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Here such attention was employ'd, 
 
 Essential to my case, 
 That long 1 1 linger'd not ; their care 
 
 Recover'd me apace. 
 
 " Yet, tho' their kindest efforts serv'd 
 My rankling- pains to heal, 
 
 Rescued from those, I was but doom'd 
 Severer pains to feel. 
 
 " Within the castle liv'd a maid, 
 Unknown to public fame, 
 
 With ev'ry female beauty blest, 
 And Bertha was her name. 
 
 " Yet doubtful was the maid's descent, 
 Her lineage so unknown, 
 
 That of her kindred no one knew, 
 Unless the knight alone. 
 
 u I saw fair Bertha, and the sight 
 
 Prov'd fatal to my rest ; 
 I lov'd — nor by each effort tried 
 
 That love could be suppress'd, 
 
 " I saw, I lov'd, nor ought could sooth 
 
 The fever of my soul ; 
 Nor time, nor distance, nor resolve, 
 
 The passion could controul. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 23 
 
 " With time, that conquers common cares, 
 
 1 found the flame increase, 
 And absence rendered more acute 
 
 The pain 'twas meant to ease. 
 
 " With ardent suit I woo'd the fair, 
 
 I won her virgin heart ; 
 She soon confest her bosom bore, 
 
 With mine an equal part. 
 
 " What joy the declaration gave, 
 
 No language can define, 
 And lovers only can conceive 
 
 The transports that were mine, 
 
 " Sir Lancelot I next address'd, 
 
 And each persuasion tried, 
 For his permission to espouse 
 
 Fair Bertha as my bride. 
 
 " With answers quite equivocal, 
 
 The knight my suit amus'd, 
 Nor ever plainly gave consent. 
 
 Nor perfectly refus'd. 
 
 " Tir'd with evasion — fir'd with love, 
 
 I press'd the lovely fair 
 To leave the castle, and with me 
 
 One common fortune share. 
 
24 THE HERMIT 
 
 " The yielding" maid approv'd the plan. 
 
 And in the silent night, 
 To an adjacent church, unseen, 
 
 We took our lonely flight. 
 
 " The rev'rend father of the place 
 Soon tied the Gordian knot ; 
 
 And now I deem'd fair Bertha mine, 
 All happiness my lot. 
 
 " Next day the convent*we forsook, 
 And, furnish'd with a guide, 
 
 To my kind foster-father's hall 
 I led my blushing bride. 
 
 " The good old man approv'd my choice, 
 
 But blam'd the rash event, 
 Yet promis'd speedily to gain 
 
 Sir Lancelot's consent. 
 
 " But now 'twas needful to proceed 
 
 On some new mode of life, 
 Besides myself, I had to care 
 
 For a deserving wife. 
 
 " Nor stopp'd Sir Michael's kindness here, 
 
 In friendship ever warm ; 
 For, with a father's care, for me 
 
 Hestock'd a neighbouring farm! 
 
OF ROCKCLTFFE. 25 
 
 '* To husbandry accustom'd, I 
 
 Each labour could pursue; 
 And, tho' but young, fair Bertha, she 
 
 The arts of dairy knew. 
 
 " Here, happy as the tuneful lark, 
 
 Three joyous years I pass'd, 
 Without one intervening care 
 
 My happiness to blast. 
 
 " Man's chiefest blessing, cheerful health, 
 
 In exercise I found ; 
 And, heav'n propitious, with success 
 
 My various labours crown'd. 
 
 " Amidst fatigue, my Bertha's smiles, 
 
 The tedious hours beguil'd ; 
 And, ere our second year was pass'd, 
 
 She blest me with a child. 
 
 " My happiness was now increas'd, 
 
 Full lovely was the boy ; 
 Our equal cares the infant shar'd, 
 
 Bestowing equal joy. 
 
26 THE HERMIT 
 
 THE HERMITS TALE. 
 
 (continued.) 
 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 JtSUT, ah! how transient, and how vain 
 Is ev'ry human hope ! 
 The real pleasures of this life 
 Have but a little scope. 
 
 " Uncertain of his future fate, 
 
 Man does but little know ; 
 Nor fears misfortune mid success, 
 
 Till fate extends the blow. 
 
 " So 'twas with me ; the morn of life. 
 
 Unclouded, gaily pass'd, 
 The genial outset made me hope 
 
 It might for ever last. 
 
 " Plac'd, as I thought, upon the top 
 
 Of Fortune's giddy wheel, 
 I soon was destin'd, by just heav'n, 
 
 A sad reverse to feel. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 27 
 
 " It chanc'd upon a holiday, 
 
 By household business sent, 
 With cheerful and unheeding heart, 
 
 To fair Carlisle I went : 
 
 " When, as I thro' the cloisters pass'd, 
 
 Intent upon my way, 
 I heard a female call aloud, 
 
 Who beckon'd me to stay. 
 
 " I turn'd aside towards the grate, 
 
 That I her will might learn, 
 But, as she wore the sacred veil, 
 
 Her face could not discern* 
 
 " I thought I recognis'd the voice, 
 
 But could not fancy where, 
 That languid seem'd ; what I suppos'd, 
 
 Th' effect of pious care." 
 
 " Draw near," the rev'rend matron said, 
 
 " Nor apprehensive be, 
 I have a question to propose, 
 
 Which you must answer me. 
 
 " Were you not at De Morville's hall, 
 
 Some twenty years ago, 
 And knew you not a lady there ? 
 
 Now, tell me, aye or no. 
 
28 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Like lightning bursting from a cloHd, 
 The question shook my brain : — 
 
 I humbly answer'd— " Holy Dame, 
 Denial were in vain. 
 
 " Yes, I was there ! O, heav'n ! that now 
 
 I had it not to say ; 
 The pleasures of that night produc'd 
 
 Me many a painful day." 
 
 " Now, mark me well," the lady cried, 
 
 " As truth I shall report, 
 Since fallacy, I ween, would ill 
 
 With ray profession sort. 
 
 " 'Twas I, with whom that fatal night 
 You wander 1 d thro' the grove ; 
 
 " 'Twas T, with whom beneath the bow'r, 
 You held illicit love. 
 
 " So intimate as we had been, 
 
 So fond the night before, 
 I make no doubt you were surprised 
 
 You ne'er beheld me more. 
 
 " But when the reasons you shall hear, 
 That caus'd this conduct strange, 
 
 Whate'er were your opinions then, 
 Must now for others change. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 29 
 
 " The noise and tumult of the night 
 
 Had so derang'd my head, 
 A burning" fever the next day 
 
 Confin'd me to my bed. 
 
 " Nor till a month elaps'd, or more, 
 
 Had I my health regain'd, 
 And then, but then, alas! to know 
 
 New cause of grief remain'd. 
 
 " My health restor'd, from room to room 
 
 Impatiently I flew, 
 Of all I eagerly inquir'd 
 
 What had become of you. 
 
 " But each research successless prov'd, 
 
 Enquiry was the same, 
 Since none of all our household train 
 
 Had ever learnt your name. 
 
 " In pensive melancholy wrapp'd 
 
 1 spent a tedious year ; 
 Nor tidings, during all that time, 
 
 Of you could ever hear. 
 
 " Worn out, at length, with peevish spleen. 
 
 With all the world at strife, 
 I suddenly resolv'd to change 
 
 My dissipated life : 
 
30 THE HERMIT 
 
 " And the remainder of my days 
 
 To dedicate to heav'n, 
 In hopes, for faults and follies past, 
 
 By pray'r to be forgiv'n. 
 
 " With this resolve, I left the world, 
 And sought this sacred place; 
 
 And have, I hope, a part obtain'd 
 Of mercy and of grace. 
 
 " Full vicious was my former life, 
 I own the shameful truth ; 
 
 Yet penance hath, I hope, expung'd 
 The errors of my youth. 
 
 " Near twenty years within these walls 
 
 Of solitude I've dwelt, 
 But ne'er, in all my former life, 
 
 Such real pleasure felt, 
 
 " But say, of all this lapse of time, 
 Where has your dwelling been? 
 
 That from that hour I ne'er could see 
 Whom most I would have seen. 
 
 " Since that ill-fated night, at Brough, 
 How have you led your life ? 
 
 Have you a family ? If so, 
 
 Pray tell me who's your wife. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 81 
 
 u By accident I saw you pass ; 
 
 Your form I thought I knew ; 
 And, as I long had wish'd, 1 now 
 
 Resolv'd to question you. 
 
 " For, though secluded from the world, 
 
 Howe'er the fault you blame, 
 My heart still form'd a vacant wish, 
 
 At least to know your name." 
 
 " Dear object of each youthful hope," 
 
 Cried I, " what would avail 
 The recollection of those woes, 
 
 Reviving in the tale. 
 
 " But, since 'tis you that have requir'd 
 
 Of me the painful task, 
 It is but reason I recite 
 
 What you've a right to ask. 
 
 " Betimes in the subsequent morn 
 
 Of that ill-fated night, 
 I rose, and sought, but sought in vain, 
 
 My heart's, my soul's delight. 
 
 " I ask'd of ev'ry one I met, 
 
 Unknowing whom I sought; 
 Enquiry quite successless prov'd, 
 
 Description serv'd me nought 
 
32 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Your face, you well may recollect, 
 
 I had not seen before ; 
 Hid by the vizor which that night, 
 
 Like all the rest, you wore. 
 
 " This, nat'rally, precluded me. 
 
 Whatever might ensue, 
 Or wheresoe'er we chanc'd to meet, 
 
 From ever knowing you. 
 
 " De Morville and his friendly hall, 
 
 In deep disgust I left ; 
 The thoughts of you alone, my soul 
 
 Of ev'ry joy bereft. 
 
 " Sunk in despair, a ling'ring year 
 For you I sigh'd and pin'd; 
 
 Whilst night and day your fancied form 
 Was present to my mind. 
 
 " At length the sad conflicting storm 
 
 Subsided by degrees; 
 My mind began to re-assume 
 
 Its former wonted ease. 
 
 " Amusements now I sought, amidst 
 
 The circles of the gay; 
 In beauty's charms new transports found, 
 
 New pleasures in each day. 
 
OP ROCKCLIFFE. 33 
 
 " At length a female gain'd my heart; 
 
 Tho' quite unknown to fame, 
 Bred with a knight on Eden side, 
 
 Fair Bertha was her name. 
 
 " Grac'd with each charm that heav'n bestows, 
 
 I sought her for my wife ; 
 And now three years with her I've liv'd, 
 
 The happiest in my life. 
 
 " As for myself, the humble truth 
 
 I candidly shall own ; 
 I am a foundling — and, of course, 
 
 My family unknown. 
 
 " Left with Sir Michael of the Moor, 
 
 Fam'd for his courtesy, 
 And Edmund is the name, they say, 
 
 My parents left with me. 
 
 " Whilst I my narrative concise, 
 
 In humble style pursu'd, 
 I mark'd strong agitation shook 
 
 The lady as she stood ; 
 
 " Whilst, ill suppress'd, the struggling groan 
 
 Did inward grief betray ; 
 But when I came to close the tale, 
 
 She shriek'd, and swoon'd away. 
 
 F 
 
34 THE HERMIT 
 
 " The holy sisterhood, alarm'd, 
 
 To her assistance run, 
 And from the earth, with kindly care, 
 
 They rais'd the fainting nun. 
 
 " All motionless awhile she lay, 
 As in the arms of death ; 
 
 Till kind restoratives applied, 
 Recall'd the fleeting breath. 
 
 " Thus, life recov'ring, to the train 
 She said—" My friends, retire ; 
 
 Since with this man an interview 
 In secret I require. 
 
 " It is essential to the peace 
 
 Of my departing soul, 
 Which heav'n now calls, nor fate itself 
 
 The summons can controul. 
 
 " The holy father abbot, he 
 
 Our conf 'rence shall attend, 
 
 For I've important things to speak, 
 Ere I shall make an end." 
 
 " So said, to their respective cells 
 The female choir withdrew, 
 
 Whilst I was introduc'd, those seat* 
 Of solitude to view. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 35 
 
 " A man with venerable mein, 
 
 The holy abbot, came, 
 And both of us our stations took, 
 
 Attendant on the dame. 
 
 " Upon a lowly couch she lay, 
 
 Her face all pale and wan, 
 And gently raising up her head, 
 
 Thus fault'ring she began : — 
 
 " Good father, oft my youthful crimes 
 
 I have confess'd to you ; 
 But the amount of half my guilt, 
 
 Till now, I never knew. 
 
 " Unprecedented are my sins, 
 
 And of that damning kind, 
 That scarce a hope with me remains 
 
 That I should mercy find. 
 
 " Thou, Edmund, first of all my crimes, 
 
 With thee my guilt begun ; — 
 Nay, be not weak, but hear me out, 
 
 To know thou art my son ! 
 
 " Thy sire King Edward was, the First, 
 
 A prince of high renown, 
 To him I bore thee, in my youth, 
 
 Before he bore his crown ! 
 
36 THE HERMIT 
 
 " When born I sent thee to be laid 
 Before Sir Michael's gate, 
 
 But, as the servant ne'er return'd, 
 1 never learnt thy fate. 
 
 " For twenty more successive years, 
 
 My life I lewdly spent, 
 Nor e'er of reformatio.! thought, 
 
 On pleasure solely bent. 
 
 " Bat, ah ! that night, that fatal night, 
 All my offences crown'd 3 
 
 The just reward of guilty lust 
 In pregnancy I found. 
 
 " Asham'd — for even vice has shame, 
 When it affects our pride, 
 
 I meant, by sending off the babe, 
 My infamy to hide. 
 
 " With old Sir Lancelot she liv'd, 
 Brought up in rural life, 
 
 Her name was Bertha ; and, my son, 
 That daughter is thy wife ! 
 
 " Thy wife, thy sister, and thy child, 
 All three combined in one ; 
 
 A double incest ! Guiltless thou — 
 
 That guilt is mine alone/' 
 
Or ROCKCLIFFE. 37 
 
 " As when from some uncommon dream 
 
 Of horror and affright, 
 A person chances to awake, 
 
 Amid the gloom of night ; 
 
 " The dreadful recollected scenes 
 
 So fright'ned fancy shake, 
 That for awhile the dreamer doubts 
 
 If yet he be awake ; 
 
 " So 'twas with me — the wond'rous tale, 
 
 Which I but just had heard, 
 Seem'd so replete with horrid facts, 
 
 So full of guilt appear' d ; 
 
 " That for awhile th' eventful whole, 
 
 I wist not what to deem, 
 But hop'd this revelation strange 
 
 Might only prove a dream. 
 
 " But when the frightful narrative 
 
 I ventur'd to review, 
 From every fact I felt convinc'd 
 
 The whole was but too true. 
 
 " Strange palpitations shook my heart, 
 My brain seem'd whirling round ; 
 
 And of reflection quite bereft, 
 I sunk upon the ground. 
 
38 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Suspended life the abbot's care 
 
 Soon kindly did restore ; 
 And when I rose, 'twas but to learn 
 
 My mother was no more. 
 
 " Stung with the anguish I endur'd, 
 
 And each sad event past, 
 Imploring mercy from above, 
 
 She sadly breath'd her last ! 
 
 " Tears, and the pow'r of utt' ranee came 
 
 At length to my relief, 
 And loud around the convent walls 
 
 Re-echo'd with my grief. 
 
 fl The kind superior of the place, 
 
 Affected by my woe, 
 By easy soft persuasion strove 
 
 Sweet comfort to bestow. 
 
 " At length the torrent of distress 
 
 Subsided by degrees ; 
 And slow the mind began t' assume 
 
 A sort of stupid ease. 
 
 " When thus, I cried, there yet remains 
 
 The hope to be forgiv'n, 
 Or how shall I acquitted stand 
 
 Before the throne of beav'n ?" 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 39 
 
 " Labour, my son," the abbot cried, 
 
 " To lighten your distress; 
 Tho' great eternal justice be, 
 
 Still mercy is no less. 
 
 " Yourself unconscious of the crime, 
 
 No wilful guilt was yours, 
 And pray'r and penance, when unfeign'd, 
 
 Forgiv'ness still secures. 
 
 " Then cease unnecessary grief, 
 
 Attend the word of truth, 
 And let amended age atone 
 
 The follies of thy youth." 
 
 " But tell me, rev'rend sire," said I, 
 
 " What was that mother's name, 
 To whom I owe my being, and 
 
 To whom I owe my shame ? 
 
 " Of her but little have I known, 
 
 Yet was that knowledge such, 
 That little, little as it was, 
 
 Was far, by far too much." 
 
 " Thy mother," quoth the courteous priest, 
 
 " As fitly should be known, 
 Sir Guy de Morville's sister was, 
 
 A knight of high renown. 
 
40 THE HERMIT 
 
 " In Tng-lewood the baron he 
 
 A hunting 1 went of late, 
 But being tumbled from his horse, 
 
 Met an untimely fate. 
 
 " And as the knight intestate died, 
 Your mother, Lady Jane, 
 
 Succeeded, by her legal right, 
 To all the vast domain. 
 
 " Of all the charters, deeds, and rights, 
 
 I solely am possess'd, 
 And now to you the whole resign, 
 
 Such was her last request. 
 
 " For this her last injunction was, 
 In solemn charge to me ; 
 
 And these her last and dying words — 
 My heir let Edmund be!" 
 
 " Sick as I was of all the world, 
 And stupid with my woe ; 
 
 Of what avail was wealth to me, 
 
 What joy could wealth bestow? 
 
 " I left the writings in his hands, 
 With bonds upon record ; 
 
 That, if the barony I claim'd, 
 
 The whole should be restor'd. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 41 
 
 " My mother's fun'ral being o'er, 
 
 I bad the choir adieu ; 
 Aud homeward hied with heavy heart, 
 
 My anguish to renew. 
 
 " My trouble yet was to be told 
 
 My poor, my guiltless wife ; 
 And how must I perform the task, 
 
 Who lo\'d her as my life ? 
 
 " And yet the task must be perform'd, 
 
 Such seem'd the will of heav'n; 
 Or how could I my num'rous crimes 
 
 Expect to have forgiv'n. 
 
 " At length I reach'd my once-lov'd cot, 
 
 The scene of soft delight; 
 But now, alas ! how sadly chang'd ! 
 
 How dreadful to my sight! 
 
 " Unus'd to be deserted thus, 
 
 My Bertha chid my stay, 
 And told how fearful she had been 
 
 At this my long delay. 
 
 " What could I do? It must he done- - 
 
 The dreadful tale I told : 
 I saw my Bertha's face grow pale, 
 
 I felt her hand grow cold ! 
 G 
 
42 THE HERMIT 
 
 " The dire intelligence seem'd more 
 Than nature could sustain ; 
 
 She wistful gaz'd me in the face, 
 But ne'er replied again. 
 
 " Her tongue all utt' ranee had forsook, 
 Her tears refused to flow ; 
 
 And down she sank upon her couch, 
 Convuls'd in speechless woe ! 
 
 " A burning fever on the morn 
 Confin'd her to her bed ; 
 
 And one short melancholy week 
 Beheld her with the dead ! 
 
 " The grave of Bertha I bedew'd 
 With many a bitter tear ; 
 
 But still the hand of destiny, 
 All cruel, stbpp'd not here : 
 
 " For, whilst attendant on her corpse, 
 
 I saw her to her tomb, 
 A band of fierce freebooters had 
 
 Been pillaging my home. 
 
 '« Lifeless, and welt' ring in his gore, 
 
 My trusty servant lay ; 
 My child — my last remaining hope, 
 
 The slaves had borne away ! 
 
OF RQCKCLIFFE. 43 
 
 " Quite madden'd with my griefs, I curs'd 
 
 The hour that gave me breath, 
 And nothing sought from heav'n so much 
 
 As for immediate death. 
 
 " Tho' yet but in the prime of life, 
 
 Life seem'd t' engage no more : 
 I'd lost that heartfelt happiness 
 
 Time never could restore. 
 
 " So in the busy walks of men, 
 
 Resolv'd no more to dwell, 
 I left my house, and lonely sought 
 
 The solitary cell. 
 
 " Here seventeen lonely years I've pass'd, 
 
 In penitence and pray'r ; 
 And to alleviate others' wants 
 
 Hath ever been my care. 
 
 " To read the lesson of my life 
 
 Unto a iist'ning few, 
 That, from example, they might learn 
 
 Such mischiefs to eschew." 
 
44 THE HERMIT 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 JYOW, fair befall my boding heart," 
 The youthful Alfred cried, 
 " Some secret impulse whispers me 
 That we must be allied. 
 
 " 'Tisjust now seventeen years ago, 
 I've heard Sir Bernavd say, 
 
 A band of furious ruffians came, 
 By plunder drawn our way. 
 
 u The country round all flew to arms, 
 
 Nor any idle stood ; 
 The robbers fled ; Sir Bernard he, 
 
 With all his train, pursu'd. 
 
 " And, ere they could repass the Esk, 
 O'ertook th' encumbered foe, 
 
 Who fled, and all their booty left, 
 Nor stood to strike a blow ! 
 
 " Amongst the rest it was my lot, 
 
 On that eventful day, 
 To be re-taken from the foe, 
 
 Amongst their other prey. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 45 
 
 " But no one there could aught impart 
 
 Of whom or whence 1 came, 
 For I was thenjnyself so young 1 , 
 
 I scarce could lisp my name. 
 
 " Sii Bernard brought me to his hall, 
 
 And bred me up with care, 
 Where I, with his own family, 
 
 A father's fondness share." 
 
 " What is thy name ? (the Hermit cried) 
 
 For now, methinks, I trace — 
 Some recollected features stand 
 
 Depicted in thy face." 
 
 " W T hen first Sir Bernard (quoth the youth) 
 
 Inquir'd my infant name, 
 I lisp'd out Alfred, and since that 
 
 Have still retained the same. 
 
 " Besides, I Jearn'd that at this time 
 
 A mantle green I wore, 
 With Edmund and with Bertha mark'tl, 
 
 Which yet I keep in store : 
 
 " For haply, on some future day, 
 
 Said I, this may declare, 
 Thro' some auspicious accident, 
 
 Who my sad parents are." 
 
46 THE HERMIT, 
 
 " Come to my arms, (the Hermit cried) 
 
 Now are my. wishes won ; 
 Thou art my Alfred ! — Gracious heav'n ! 
 
 Yes, yes — it is my son ! 
 
 " Mysterious are the ways of fate, 
 With blind and futile man ; 
 
 And yet the ways of Providence 
 Shall he pretend to scan ? 
 
 " For when I thought in sorrow's course 
 
 My life unchang'd had pass'd, 
 Kind heav'n, in mercy, brings my son 
 
 To comfort me at last. 
 
 i 
 " Yes, yes ; my Alfred, with his care 
 
 Declining life shall bless ; 
 This moment's pleasure would o'er-pay 
 
 An age of past distress. 
 
 " But, tell me, Alfred, (Edmund said) 
 Who's she that's by thy side ? 
 
 Her bashful diffidence bespeaks 
 That she is not thy bride. 
 
 " Beware, my 6on, mistaken love ; 
 
 Avoid the daug'rous snare, 
 And from a father's lesson learn 
 
 His sorrows to beware." 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 47 
 
 " The lovely Imogen© she blash'd, 
 Confusion ting'd her cheek, 
 
 But, bound in bashfulness, the maid 
 Presum'd not now to speak. 
 
 When Alfred thus the rev'rend sage, 
 
 Ingenuously address' d : 
 " Dear sire, no foul impressions need 
 
 Be harbour'd in your breast. 
 
 " For, tho' in life's precarious ways, 
 An inexperienc'd youth, 
 
 Yet what I've hitherto advanc'd 
 Is nothing but the truth. 
 
 " This lady you behold with me 
 Is virtuous as she's fair, 
 
 And daughter to Sir Bernard is — 
 In fact his only heir. 
 
 " I told you she was forc'd away 
 By that unfeeling band, 
 
 And that I rescu'd and restored 
 Her by my single hand. 
 
 " All this is true, that I've declar'd, 
 For falsehood I despise ; 
 
 Till now a parent I ne'er knew, 
 Then what should I disguise. 
 
48 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Fair Imogene, 'tis true, 1 love, 
 Nor has the lovely dame 
 
 Regardless notic'd my concern, 
 But felt a mutual flame. 
 
 " Tho' conscious of my state obscure. 
 
 My flame I long conceal'd, 
 Nor till her kind approval gain'd, 
 
 That passion e'er reveal'd. 
 
 " Child of obscurity and want, 
 
 What madness should I prove, 
 
 Had I a declaration made 
 Of my ambitious love. 
 
 i 
 
 " But now a ray of brighter hope 
 Pervades my humble mind, 
 
 And fairer prospects crowd to view, 
 Since I a father find." 
 
 With this avowal of his love, 
 
 Ingenuous, as I ween, 
 A deeper dyesuffus'd the cheek 
 
 Of lovelv Imosfene. 
 
 'o 
 
 For, tho' unconscious of the flame 
 That prey'd on Alfred's heart, 
 
 Her breast reciprocal had felt 
 For him an equal smart. 
 
OF ROCKCLTPFE. 49 
 
 Thus either lover long had liv'd, 
 
 Though equally unknown ; 
 And, but for accident, that love 
 
 They neither would have shown. 
 
 In him 'twas diffidence alone, 
 
 That could the flame conceal; 
 Whilst modesty in her forbad 
 
 The passion to reveal. 
 
 " But say, my son, (the Hermit cried) 
 
 With all thy smother'd iove, 
 Hast thou a hope Sir Bernard's heir 
 
 That passion can approve ? 
 
 " A blush diffuses o'er her cheek, 
 
 That more bespeaks her heart 
 Than all the specious figures us'd 
 
 In elocution's art. 
 
 " Say, Imogene, if Alfred were 
 
 Thine equal in estate, 
 Could'st thou, with good Sir Bernard's leave, 
 
 Consent to be his mate ?" 
 
 Confusion chok'd the beauteous maid, 
 
 She falter'd to reply ; 
 She lov'd young Alfred far too well 
 
 Her passion to deny. 
 
 H 
 
50 THE HERMIT 
 
 And yet, by modesty withheld, 
 
 She scrupled to avow 
 That love she knew not how to hide, 
 
 Which show'd most obvious now. 
 
 " A happy omen, (Edmund cried) 
 
 As happy prove the event ! 
 Thy speechless answer almost proves 
 
 That silence gives consent." 
 
 " If I must speak, (the maid replied) 
 
 And truth be forc'd to say, 
 Your son has not unpleasing been, 
 
 To me, this many a day. 
 
 " But, little did I e'er suppose 
 That thus his gen'rous heart, 
 
 When mine was tortur'd with distress, 
 Endur'd an equal smart." 
 
 " All gracious heav'n ! (the youth exclaim'd) 
 
 What happiness is this ! 
 Sure mortals are not oft decreed 
 
 To share an equal bliss. 
 
 " Which most my admiration claims ? 
 
 Which most should I approve ? 
 In this I meet paternal care, 
 
 In that requited love!" 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 51 
 
 u No more, my son, (old Edmund said) 
 
 Thy transports now suspend, 
 The night is far advanc'd, and claims 
 
 That we the subject end. 
 
 " The thing most needful, in my mind, 
 
 Till morning- Til revolve ; 
 And by that time expect to hear 
 
 My purpose and resolve." 
 
 The rosy-finger' d queen of morn 
 
 Had ting'd the eastern skies, 
 Ere Morpheus had remov'd his seals 
 
 From Alfred's drowsy eyes. 
 
 All glitt'ring on the craggy cliff, 
 
 The sun refulgent gleams, 
 Whilst winding Eden, from below, 
 
 Reflects the qui v' ring beams. 
 
 When Edmund hied him to the couch 
 
 Where Alfred slumb'ring lay, 
 And rous'd him from his death-like sleep 
 
 To hail the happy day. 
 
 Then to the bow'r, where sweetly slept 
 
 Fair Imogene, he goes, 
 And, with a soft salute, awakes 
 
 The maid from her repose. 
 
52 THE HERMIT 
 
 Full gaily soiil'd the blushing rose, 
 
 Full gaily bloom' d the thorn, 
 But gayer still bloom' d Imogene, 
 Upon this happy morn. 
 
 The new-born hopes, the pleasing thoughts, 
 That throng' d her lovely breast, 
 
 Improv'd each charm, and in her eyes 
 That secret joy confess'd. 
 
 Whilst Alfred, more than doubly bless'd, 
 Her rising charms survey'd, 
 
 With all the extacy of love, 
 By mutual love repaid. 
 
 This common joy the sage himself 
 
 Seem'd partially to share ; 
 And* by the present won, awhile 
 
 Forgets his former care. 
 
 Up to the summit of the cliff, 
 
 The youthful pair he led ; 
 When, far extended to the view, 
 
 The spacious landscape spread. 
 
 Northward, in azure mists involv'd, 
 The Scotian mountains rise; 
 
 And southward, Cumbria's fertile plains 
 Salute the gladden'd eyes. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 63 
 
 Here, to the east, thro' fruitful vales, 
 
 The Eden winds its way ; 
 There, to the west, proud Solway rolls 
 
 Impetuous to the sea. 
 
 Here you may view thr sweeping- bark, 
 
 Swift gliding o'er the main ; 
 And there unnumber'd flecks behold, 
 
 That graze upon the plain. 
 
 Whilst to the left, thy lofty tow'rs, 
 
 Caerlulia,* may be seen ; 
 And to the right, in humble style, 
 
 The far-fam'd Gretna-Green. 
 
 Behold where yon embattled tow'rs 
 
 Majestically rise, 
 Whose lofty pinnacles appear 
 
 Envelop'd with the skies; 
 
 That noble structure once confess'd 
 
 De Morville for its Lord, 
 And round him num'rous vassals liv'd. 
 
 Attendant on his word. 
 
 *CaerIulia, the old British name of Caerlisle, from Caer, a 
 city, and Lule, or Leol, a wall, being 1 situated near the Picts' wall. 
 
54 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Each, by my mother's will, to me 
 The same obedience yields ; 
 
 These castles and these towers, are mine* 
 These forests and these fields. 
 
 " But sicken'd (said the good old man) 
 With sorrow, as I've been, 
 
 What charms had affluence left for me, 
 Who nought but woe had seen ? 
 
 " Disgusted with the busy world, 
 
 Its follies and its strife, 
 I sought for solitude ; resol'd 
 
 With heav'n to pass my life. 
 
 " The abbot of St- Mary's, he 
 Has had, since that event, 
 
 Of all my temporal concerns 
 The perfect management. 
 
 " But, since, my lov'd, my long-lost child, 
 
 My life revives in thee, 
 Our worldly business must, henceforth, 
 
 Entirely alter' d be. 
 
 *i Those castles, and those wide domains. 
 
 So bootlessly made mine, 
 On marrying lovely Imogene, 
 
 To thee I shall resign ! 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 55 
 
 " I make no doubt I soon shall gain 
 
 Sir Bernard's free consent, 
 For cruelty it must be deem'd, 
 
 Your union to prevent, 
 
 " What tho' if she an heiress be, 
 
 And he a baron brave, 
 Thy portion shall be three times more 
 
 Than all that he can have. 
 
 " The extensive barony at Brough 
 
 Is all at thy command, 
 With large domains in diff 'rent parts 
 
 Of spacious Cumberland. 
 
 " Where yon fair column proudly braves 
 
 Th' insulting northern blast, 
 Thy royal grandsire Edward,* he 
 
 Inglorious breath' d his last. 
 
 * Edward the First died in his camp, of a dysentery, on a spa- 
 cious plain, commonly called the Marsh, near Brough, on the 
 sands, as he was on his expedition to the invasion of Scotland. Soon 
 after his death, a monument of wood had been erected to his me- 
 mory, but this yielding to the ravage of all-destroying' time, about 
 the latter end of the seventeenth century a fair column of free-stone 
 was erected by his Grace the Duke of Norfolk, on the place where 
 the former one had stood, with an inscription indicative of the cha- 
 racter, the cause of the expedition, and the manner and time of the 
 death of that illustrious monarch : this, happening to be built on an 
 unstable foundation, towards the close of the eighteenth century fell 
 down also. Since that it has been rehuilt at the sole expence of the 
 present Earl of Lonsdale. 
 
56 THE HERMIT 
 
 " Encamp' d upon that plain, he died — 
 
 Destruction his design ; 
 Ambition mark'd his life. My son, 
 
 Let virtue temper thine. 
 
 " And now, my children, to Carlisle, 
 
 With speed let us repair, 
 The father abbot shall assist 
 
 In what is wanting there. 
 
 " From thence the good Sir Bernard may 
 
 With ease be advertis'd ; 
 And, of our coming and design, 
 
 Be properly appris'd. 
 
 " For now 'tis my most ardent wish 
 
 Your nuptials soon to see, 
 Which I propose, ere I return, 
 
 There solemniz'd shall be." 
 
 Then to their route, with joyous hearts, 
 
 Set out the happy train, 
 Along the river's verdant side, 
 
 And soon the abbey gain. 
 
 A courier soon Sir Bernard brought, 
 Who came, well pleas'd, to learn 
 
 That Imoo-ene had rescu'd been 
 And was on her return. 
 
OF ROCKCLIFFE. 57 
 
 Nor had the fair occasion long 
 
 To sue for his consent, 
 Sir Bernard was too fond by far 
 
 Their union to prevent. 
 
 Rejoic'd, he gave his lraogene 
 To be young Alfred's bride ; 
 
 And, by the rev'rend Abbot, soon 
 The Gordian knot was tied. 
 
 Next morning to De Morville's hall 
 The party took their way ; 
 
 Nor e'er had Brongh beheld before 
 A scene so grand — so gay. 
 
 Rejoicings for a month at least 
 On this occasion were ; 
 
 And at their table rich and poor 
 Most lib'rally did share. 
 
 The sports concluded, and the guests 
 Sped each his diff'rent way ; 
 
 Kind Alfred sorely importun'd 
 His hapless sire to stay : 
 
 But all entreaties were in vain, 
 
 Tho' each his utmost tried, 
 
 To tempt the solitary sire 
 
 With Alfred to reside. 
 i 
 
58 THE HERMIT OF ROCKCLIFFE. 
 
 Tenacious of his lonely life, 
 
 He sought his humble cell, 
 Resob'd (as he to Heav'n had vow'd) 
 In solitude to dwell. 
 
 But, as the distance was but small, 
 He now and then would stray 
 
 To Brough, and, with his children there. 
 Enjoy a happy day. 
 
 While Alfred and his Imogene, 
 With ev'ry comfort crown'd, 
 
 Liv'd long — were happy, and esteem'd' 
 By all the country round. 
 
THE 
 
 ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 OWEET sung the blackbird on the spray, 
 
 Sweet sung- the lark his matin song; 
 And sweetly sung sweet Ellen gay, 
 
 As thro' the grove she rang'd along. 
 Fair Ellen was pronounc'd the rose 
 
 Of all the maidens far and wide ; 
 No rival beauty might propose, 
 
 To vie with her, on Eden side. 
 Her sire Sir Gilferd Salkeld was, 
 
 A doughty baron as might be, 
 No neighbouring knight could him surpass, 
 
 In wealth, throughout the north country. 
 Nor more for wealth than valour fam'd, 
 
 His prowess rang the country round ; 
 The brave Sir Gilferd still surnam'd, 
 
 For e'en at court was he renown'd. 
 Fair Ellen was his only child, 
 
 Now in her prime, with ev'ry grace ; 
 In manners, as an angel mild, 
 
 Whilst beauty's self sat in her face. 
 
60 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Full many a knight of high renown, 
 
 And baron bold, with ardour strove 
 To win the fair one for his own, 
 
 And to engage young Ellen's love. 
 Amongst the undistinguish'd crowd 
 
 Of suitors that successive came, 
 Was one, a knight, right brave allow'd, 
 
 Sir Fergus Bewick was his name : 
 Great was his wealth, great was his pow'r, 
 
 In Bew his castled mansion lay, 
 And day by day within his tow'r 
 
 Full fourscore men enjoy'd his pay. 
 With ardour long his suit he press'd, 
 
 Implor'd her pity, urg'd his smart ; 
 But tho' keen passion fir'd his breast, 
 
 No flame responsive warm'd her heart. 
 Thus unsuccessful with the dame, 
 
 The sire's assistance next he sues; 
 To him propos'd his suit and aim, 
 
 In hopes the boon he'd not refuse ; 
 But sordid was Sir Gilferd's breast, 
 
 Still wishful to increase his store ; 
 And, tho' with more than plenty bless'd, 
 
 Yet, still the baron wanted more ! 
 Lord Dacres had his love disclos'd, 
 
 Not to fair Ellen, but her sire ; 
 To him large offers had propos'd, 
 
 In hopes to accomplish his desire. 
 
THE ROSE OP CORBY til 
 
 Their wide domains contiguous laid, 
 
 Lord Dacres was of high degree, 
 And where one acre Bewick had, 
 
 It might be said that he had three : 
 This with old Salkeld more prevail'd, 
 
 Than ev'ry argument beside ; 
 The suit of poor Sir Fergus fail'd, 
 
 And Ellen's hand he was denied ; 
 But in his heart no rankling wound 
 
 His unrequited love had made : 
 There love had little entrance found, 
 
 And soon that little was allay'd. 
 To Corby castle more attach'd, 
 
 Than to fair Ellen by his flame, 
 He to her fortunes would have mateh'd, 
 
 Not minding much the beauteous dame. 
 And much the same Lord Dacres, he 
 
 The lands, and not the lady, view'd, 
 Nor caring how her heart might be, 
 
 He diligent the father sued. 
 Of Corby castle once possess'd, 
 
 He well foresaw his rising worth, 
 For this would make him, with the rest, 
 
 The greatest Lord in all the North. 
 Nor was the sire less pleas'd to see 
 
 Th' increase of wealth, th' increase of pow'r, 
 That, from this sordid union, he 
 
 Should on his much-lov'd daughter show'r, 
 
 I 
 
<32 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Sir Gilferd to his daughter said, 
 
 Upon a lovely morn in May, 
 " Come here, my fair, my pretty maid, 
 
 I something serious have to say : 
 You're now near twenty years of age, 
 
 And in the bloom of youthful prime, 
 'Tis meet you with the world engage, 
 
 Nor longer idly waste your time ; 
 For T am old, and far in years, 
 
 My thread of life cannot last long ; 
 And many are a father's fears, 
 
 That a dear daughter may do wrong. 
 Then, ere I sink into the grave, 
 
 As heaven alone can tell how soon, 
 Of you one favour I must crave, 
 
 And you must not deny the boon. — 
 You know I've been indulgent still, 
 
 To you no wish have I denied, 
 For whate'er seem'd to be your will, 
 
 With that was I well satisfied. 
 So, daughter dear, with my request, 
 
 In gratitude you must comply, 
 Obedience always makes me blest, 
 
 I know you cannot — won't deny. 
 Lord Dacres is a worthy lord, 
 
 He likes you well, he craves your love ; 
 I promis'd, on a father's word, 
 
 His suit my Ellen must approve. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 63 
 
 His vast domain wide round us lies, 
 
 To yours this added soon shall be ; 
 And you, advanc'd in rank, shall rise 
 
 Prime lady of the North country. 
 But, if perversely ycu refuse 
 
 To yield consent to my request; 
 Know, 'tis not left to you to choose; 
 
 No, 'tis your father's firm behest! 
 But, fain that tyrant word — command, 
 
 Would I excuse, might it be so; 
 Nor forth extend coercion's hand, 
 
 To plunge a daughter into woe ; 
 But your good sense, my child, I hope, 
 
 Will teach obedience to my will, 
 Nor let you with my mandate cope; 
 
 So trust I to your better skill. 
 If you Lord Dacres' suit approve, 
 
 Then all I have is surely thine ; 
 But if you shall refuse your love, 
 
 Then ne'er expect a mite of mine : 
 This is my pleasure, my request — 
 
 Nay, more — 'tis my command to you ; 
 Think as you please, but choose the best :" 
 
 So spoke the baron, and withdrew. 
 Have you beheld a new-blown rose, 
 
 When drench'd by one fast-falling shower : 
 Its tints with more effect disclose, 
 
 Each drop improving more the flower/ 
 
04 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 So look'd fair Ellen, pensive, mute, 
 
 The tears fast trickling o'er her cheek ; 
 To hear Lord Da ere' s proxied suit, 
 
 Unable one short word to speak. 
 How could she force her heart to love 
 
 One scarcely seen, and quite unknown; 
 How force her bosom to approve 
 
 A flame repugnant to her own? 
 No ! 'tis not in a parent's might, 
 
 To force affection — fix the heart; 
 A subtler pow'r, with subtler slight, 
 
 Alone can execute this part. 
 Amongst the knights and barons who 
 
 So frequent throng d Sir Gilbert's court, 
 For feats of tournaments or show, 
 
 To hunt the boar, or other sport; 
 Tho' in their gaudiest suits array'd, 
 
 Tho' num'rous vassals throng'd each train ; 
 Tho' skill and valour were display'd, 
 
 And courtesy of manners vain ; 
 Not one, 'midst all this proud parade, 
 
 Of lordly guests who forward press'd, 
 Had e'er the least impression made 
 
 Within fair Ellen's youthful breast ; 
 Save one :--a youth, whose modest mein 
 
 Spoke no exalted rank or fame ; 
 Him oft at Corby had she seen, 
 
 And Musgrave was the stripling's name, 
 
THE ROSE OP CORBY. Q$ 
 
 No baron he, nor baron's son, 
 
 Nor garter' d knight of high degree, 
 But he with Lord De Graystock won, 
 
 In his fair castle merrily. 
 Adorn'd with ev'ry courtly grace, 
 
 Each rare endowment he possess' d ; 
 A manly beauty flush'd his face, 
 
 And virtue seem'd to fire his breast. 
 His grandsire, whilom the domain 
 
 Erst held of Gilsland, as I ween, 
 But our sixth Harry's hapless reign 
 
 The ruin of his house had been ; 
 A small reversion had been spar'd, 
 
 Whereby the family to trace, 
 Of which Lord Graystock then was ward 
 
 For Musgrave, last of all his race. 
 In him, as in the fondest sire, 
 
 The youth a kind protection found, 
 And ev'ry wish, and each desire, 
 
 Were always with indulgence crown'd. 
 A train of serving-men had he, 
 
 Alone to serve at his command ; 
 And where his lord e'er chanc'd to be, 
 
 Was Musgrave close at his right hand. 
 Whene'er to old Sir Gilferd's hall 
 
 De Graystock friendly visits paid, 
 The younker, let what would befal, 
 
 One of his party always made. 
 
(5(3 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Young" Ellen say — young" Ellen lov'd, 
 
 The youth alone her heart possess'd ; 
 His ev'ry action she approv'd, 
 
 And that approval soon confess'd. 
 Nor unconcern'd had he beheld 
 
 The youthful Ellen's beauteous face, 
 A mutual flame his breast had fill'd, 
 
 And ev'ry thought to love gave place ; 
 But, conscious of th' inferior state 
 
 In which he stood, he only mourn'd ;; 
 Bewail'd th' unkindness of his fate, 
 
 In silence gaz'd — in secret burn'd. 
 Full oft, to ease his love-lorn mind, 
 
 An interview he sought to have ; 
 And love, to lovers ever kind, 
 
 An opportunity soon gave : 
 For, as one morn amidst the shade 
 
 He rang'd, deep wrapp'd in thoughtful love, 
 He chanc'd to hear the beauteous maid, 
 
 Sweet singing thro' the echoing grove. 
 With ardour wing'd, swift as a dart 
 
 Th' impatient lover onward hied ; 
 But love, tho' it o'erflow'd the heart, 
 
 The pow'rs of utt' ranee quite denied. 
 Awhile in fix'd amazement stood 
 
 Th' admiring youth, nor vent'rous spoke ; 
 Her charms with heartfelt transport view'd, 
 
 But thus, at Ien°th, he silence broke: — 
 
THE ROSE OP CORBY. 67 
 
 " Say, lady fair, what brings you here, 
 
 So far, so early, and alone?" 
 Quoth she — " Kind sir, what needs me fear, 
 
 Are not these parks my father's own? 
 Here, ev'ry morn, I come to hear 
 
 The lark his matin carol sing- ; 
 Here, too, at ev'ning tide repair, 
 
 Until the warning" curfew ring. 
 How cheering is the blackbird's song, 
 
 How fresh'ning is the vernal breeze, 
 How glad seem all the feather'd throng, 
 
 Whilst gaily flutt'ring thro' the trees! 
 Fair is the landscape to the eye, 
 
 And variegated is the scene ; 
 Hush'd are the winds, whilst yonder sky 
 
 Is all unruffled and serene. 
 There Eden rolls, majestic stream ! 
 
 Whose course the tow'ring cliffs o'ershade, 
 And there Aurora's morning beam, 
 
 From its smooth surface is displayed. 
 Yon rising hills, these murm'ring floods, 
 
 Those distant tow'rs that strike the sight ; 
 These flow'ry walks, those shady woods, 
 
 Are all conducive of delight. 
 And then, how healthful 'tis to range, 
 
 To breathe the morning-scented air ? 
 Why, then, kind stranger, seems it strange, 
 
 That you should find me walking here?" 
 
68 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 if Not that I blame your walk, (replies 
 
 The youth) 'tis pleasant, all must own ; 
 But what created my surprise, 
 
 Was, but in meeting" you alone." 
 " And who should be my partner, pray, 
 
 (Said she) to walk along the grove ?" 
 " What person fitter, lady, say, 
 
 Than he, the happy man you love ?" 
 " Who is that man ? (fair Ellen said,) 
 
 As yet I wot not, I protest!" 
 " Whoe'er he be, most beauteous maid, 
 
 He certes must be doubly bless'd." 
 Good heav'ns ! young Musgrave sigh'd, then hush'd, 
 
 On Ellen fix'd his stedfast eyes ; 
 Whilst o'er his cheeks the crimson flush'd, 
 
 And she beheld him with surprise. 
 " Why stand you thus, (said Ellen) speak ; 
 
 Why fix your earnest gaze on me ; 
 Why heaves your breast — why glows your cheeks; 
 
 Say, sir, what may the matter be?" 
 " Forgive, fair dame, (young Musgrave cried) 
 
 Th' emotions prudence should conceal ; 
 Emotions which I cannot hide, 
 
 That speak too plainly what I feel. 
 To burn in secret, long my fate, 
 
 For thee, sweet Ellen, peerless fair ; 
 But, conscious of my humble state, 
 
 Forbore that passion to declare. 
 
THB ROSE OP CORBY. 69 
 
 But since the longf heart-buried flame 
 
 That rent my breast — that made me bleed, 
 Bursts forth that passion to proclaim, 
 
 Despair to foil}' must succeed." 
 " Despair! (fair Ellen strait replied) 
 
 Brave men with fortune ought to cope; 
 The adage ne'er was yet denied — 
 
 Faint heart — you know the rest — then hope." 
 But say, what pencil shall pourtray 
 
 The. alter' d look of Musgrave's face? 
 No common hand the task essay, 
 
 When doubt to certainty gave place. 
 Soon each to each their hearts explain, 
 
 And diffidence was soon no more; 
 Nor long suspense prolong'd their pain, 
 
 For love had done the work before. 
 From Graystock many a well-pleas'd tour, 
 
 To Corby, graceful Musgrave took ; 
 And ofttimes at the midnight hour, 
 
 Leander-like, he swam the brook : 
 There, with his rose in dalliance sweet, 
 
 He'd stay till grey-ey'd morn appear'd; 
 Then, unobserv'd, made his retreat, 
 
 And gladsome home to Graystock steer'd. 
 But when fair Ellen came to know 
 
 Her father's cruel, stern intent, 
 Her heart was quite o'erwhelm'd with woe. 
 
 And rage and fear her besom rent. 
 
70 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Rage, that she should be thus compell'd 
 
 To wed the object of her hate ; 
 But most her breast with fears was fill'd, 
 
 Lest Musgrave were inform'd too late. 
 Th' ensuing morning 1 was to see 
 
 Her made Lord Dacres' married wife ! 
 Such was her father's stern decree, 
 
 And curs'd must be her future life. 
 And such was old Sir Gilferd's mood, 
 
 No reasoning e'er could change his mind ; 
 For, be the project bad or good, 
 
 He'd do what he had once desiern'd. 
 His temper well fair Ellen knew, 
 
 From lenity she'd nought to hope; 
 And sure desertion must ensue, 
 
 Were she to hazard to elope. 
 But then to give her willing hand 
 
 To one her heart so disapprov'd, 
 And, for a cruel sire's command, 
 
 Thus to desert the man she lov'd ! 
 O'er each consideration weigh'd, 
 
 But how to act she could not tell ; 
 Nice was the point, and sore afraid 
 
 Was she to err, tho' meaning well. 
 Then she call'd up her trusty page, 
 
 And to the varlet thus said she — 
 " Wilt thou now, on thy oath, engage 
 
 To serve me once with secrecy ? 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 71 
 
 An errand thou must mn me strait, 
 
 A letter, too, must take withal, 
 And thou must neither stop nor wait 
 
 Till thou hast reach'd De Graystock's hall."— 
 Then up and spoke this trusty page, 
 
 And to fair Ellen thus did say: 
 " In what new task must I engage, 
 
 That you these strict injunctions lay? 
 Have you not found me faithful still, 
 
 To run or bide at your command ; 
 Has not my pleasure been your will, 
 
 Did I your bidding ever stand?" 
 " No more, (she said ;) begone with speed, 
 
 Nor longer stop to prate- away ! 
 But as I find you shall succeed, 
 
 Proportion'd your reward shall be." 
 Then off with nimble feet he hied, 
 
 The silver moon bestow'd her light; 
 Nor stopp'd he once, nor turn'd aside, 
 
 Till Graystock tow'rs appear' d in sight. 
 And when he reach'd the castle gate, 
 
 He boldly rung the castle bell: 
 41 Who's there! (the porter call'd) that late, 
 
 Thus rings; or what's your business, tell? 
 " Unbar the gate, (the page replied) 
 
 Be quick, for I've no time to stay; 
 " For what ? (the churlish porter cried) 
 
 First, stranger, tell thy business, pray." 
 
72 THE ROSE OF COKBV. 
 
 " 'Tis a fair lady's embassage, 
 
 That I in charge to Musgrave bear ; 
 And I must see him. ( said the page) 
 
 Before the morning light appear." 
 Then strait the bolts the porter drew ; 
 
 The page admitted thro' the gate, 
 And quick to Musgrave's chamber flewj 
 
 His sore-grudg'd errand to relate. 
 The slumb'ring lover from his bed 
 
 The porter rous'd, and led him strait 
 To where the page all shiv'ring staid, 
 
 Impatient, at the inner gate. 
 " What is thy business, (Musgrave said) 
 
 What is thy business, friend, with me ; 
 That thus my slumbers you invade, 
 
 'Midst dreams of such felicity ?" 
 " 'Tis much (replied the witty page) 
 
 If e'er you dreamt, whilst in your bed, 
 Of things wherein you must engage, 
 
 E'er you again lay down your head. 
 Here is a letter ; read it strait, 
 
 From that you'll learn what's to be done ; 
 For me I may no longer wait, 
 
 I must be home ere rising sun." 
 So said the page : with speed return' d ; 
 
 Whilst Musgrave to his chamber hies : 
 His breast with keen enquiry butn'd, 
 
 And soon the crackling signet flies. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY 73 
 
 But, as the tender scroll he read, 
 
 What anxious passions throng'd his breast — 
 Love, fear, and rage, by turns invade, 
 
 And sorely was the youth distress'd. 
 But not a moment now to waste 
 
 Was left, the time was precious grown; 
 His servants Musgrave rais'd in haste, 
 
 And soon his ticklish plight made known. 
 " Attend, my gay companions, all, 
 
 (The love-lorn anxious Musgrave said,) 
 I've business now, it seems, will call 
 
 For all your friendship and your aid. 
 The beauteous Rose of Corby, she 
 
 Has sworn to be my wedded bride, 
 But her stern father doth decree, 
 
 She to Lord Dacres should be tied. 
 To-morrow is the fated day 
 
 That makes fair Ellen Dacres' wife; 
 Then rouse, my friends, .nor ling'ring stay ; 
 
 On you depends my future life. 
 Array you in your suits of green, 
 
 Each with a sword and targetbright; 
 And let us, ere De Graystoek ween, 
 
 To Corby scour, ere morning light. 
 The nearest route full well I know, 
 
 No tell-tale shall our march report, 
 In sooth, our steeds shall not baslow, 
 
 We'll either make or mar some sport." 
 
74 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 With haste th' ready troop obey'd, 
 
 Each from the stall his courser led, 
 And soon th' advent'rous cavalcade, 
 
 Like light'ning, from the castle sped. 
 Thro' Inglewood they took their way, 
 
 O'er lofty Berwick furious ride; 
 And, long- before the break of day, 
 
 Arrive at Eden's winding side; 
 Here, in a close embow'ring wood, 
 
 They stopp'd awhile, whilst breath they took, 
 To fix on plans to be pursu'd, 
 
 Before they ventur'd thro' the brook. 
 " By the Lord Harry, (Musgrave said) 
 
 Now something desp'rate must be done, 
 For oft said Ellen, beauteous maid! 
 
 Faint heart fair lady never won! 
 But here awhile we may repose, 
 
 Till Sol yon eastern hills adorn; 
 What would be best to do, God knows — 
 
 But nought can be achiev'd till morn." 
 So said, their coursers fast they tied, 
 
 And down on heathy hillocks lay, 
 Resolv'd in silence to abide 
 
 The upshot of the coming day. 
 Forth from th' east the blushing dawn 
 
 O'er Hartside's heights now 'gan to glare, 
 The lowing herds bow seek the lawn, 
 
 The shepherds to their pens repair. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. lo 
 
 Whilst thro' the grove the woodlark sings, 
 
 The bleating lambkins range the hills, 
 And welcome to the chorus rings, 
 
 And smiles the face of nature" fill. 
 Up rose Lord Dacres with the day, 
 
 Around him throng 1 d a num'rous train 
 Of knights, and 'squires, and ladies gay, 
 
 Before his castle, on the plain. 
 For Corby march'd the merry troop, 
 
 'Twas heartfelt pleasure flush'd each face ; 
 Nor oft had pass'd so fair a groupe 
 
 Thro' Gilsland, on so fair a case. 
 Sir Fergus Bewick by the side 
 
 Of Dacres rode, in cheerful glee, 
 In armour clad, with lordly pride — 
 
 A gallant wight I ween was he. 
 With numbers more in armour bright, 
 
 Who gaily follow'd in the throng; 
 In sooth, it was a glorious sight, 
 
 To view them as they pass'd along. 
 Scarce had the sun the hills illum'd, 
 
 That bound fair Cumbria on the east, 
 Before this troop, all gaily plum'd, 
 
 The western banks of Irtbing press'd. 
 Whilst Corby castle near at hand, 
 
 Rose thro' the forest, fair to view, 
 When, eager now, the jocund band 
 
 The nearly-finish'd route pursue. 
 
76 THE ROSE OP CORBY. 
 
 -The tuneful bell, with cheerful sound, 
 
 From Weath'rhill Pri'ry hail'd the train ; 
 And the re-echoing rocks resound, 
 
 Down Eden's vale, the gladsome strain. 
 And soon arriv'd the cheerful band, 
 
 Their length'ning ranks in order drawn, 
 In ample lines they gaily stand, 
 
 Extended o'er the verdant lawn. 
 Old Salkeld hobbled to the green, 
 
 And said — " My friends, you're welcome all ; 
 So fair a troop I have not seen 
 
 Assembled e'er before my hall. 
 How fares Lord Dacres, and the rest 
 
 Of all his jovial company ? 
 All well, I hope, so I am bless'd ; 
 
 Come, friends, dismount — and go with me; 
 For ere you stir, or quit this ground 
 
 For Hymen's altar to proceed, 
 The sparkling goblet shall go round, 
 
 As, doubtless, all refreshment need." 
 So said — the grooms the prancing steeds 
 
 Each led to their respective stall; 
 Whilst Dacres his companions leads, 
 
 To taste the cheer of Gilferd's hall. 
 Here ev'ry face with joy seem'd glad, 
 
 To trouble ev'ry heart unknown, 
 Save Ellen — silent she, and sad, 
 
 Her chamber sought, and sigh'd alone. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 77 
 
 " Where is my Musgrave, (cried the maid) 
 
 Why comes he not with speed to me ? 
 Oh ! has my secret been betray'd, 
 
 Or faithless can my true love be ? 
 Haste to my rescue, Musgrave, haste; 
 
 Or soon I'm made Lord Dacres' wife! 
 In dole my future days to waste, 
 
 And be unhappy thro' my life.'* 
 Young Musgrave heard not Ellen's moan, 
 
 In the green forest where he stood ; 
 Yet oft his anxious looks were thrown 
 
 To Corby, from the shelt'ring wood. 
 He saw Lord Ducres, with his train, 
 
 Arrive upon the castle green ; 
 He saw them muster' d on the plain ; — 
 
 Full sorely vex'd was he I ween. 
 For full five hundred glitt'ring spears 
 
 With Dacres came, all fair to view j 
 Their numbers rais'd the lover's fears, 
 
 And well he wist not what to do. 
 " Here are we but a score in all, 
 
 (He said) and tho' we courage boast, 
 My friends, our number is too small 
 
 To cope with such a pow'rful host. 
 Some fav'ring juncture I expect 
 
 Kind heav'n, for Musgrave, shall ordain ; 
 We must by stratagem effect 
 
 What we by force cannot obtain, 
 
78 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Expectant of our future state, 
 
 Unseen, their movements we may view 
 The happy crisis here await 
 
 That shall instruct us what to do : 
 Whilst each of you, my trusty friends, 
 
 Attend me, with undaunted heart ; 
 That, when kind chance the occasion lends, 
 
 Each may be ready for his part." 
 And now prepare these gallants all, 
 
 Each to remount his mettled steed, 
 To quit the hospitable hall, 
 
 And to the abbey strait proceed. 
 Fair Ellen on a palfrey rode 
 
 Full closely by Lord Dacres 1 side, 
 In garment gay, dress'd a-la-mede, 
 
 A winsome, but a woeful bride. 
 Young Musgrave view'd the cavalcade 
 
 From the green forest where he lay, 
 The host, in glitt'ring arms array'd, 
 
 And (painful sight) his Ellen gay. 
 But say, how must his youthful heart 
 
 With agonizing rage be torn, 
 To see his Rose in tears depart, 
 
 And to the church triumphant borne ! 
 The temple soon the party gain, 
 
 And soon the hallow'd rites are o'er ; 
 When all soon quit the sacred fane, 
 
 And to the hall return once more. 
 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 70 
 
 Loud mirth now fills the festive throng, 
 
 The spacious goblets stream around ; 
 The mingling laugh, the chorus* d song, 
 
 Loud thro' the echoing mansion sound, 
 And ev'ry bosom seem'd to share 
 
 The transports of the festive morn, 
 Save Ellen — she, dejected fair, 
 
 In secret wail'd her lot forlorn : 
 When loudly rung the castle bell, 
 
 And loudly rung the echoing hall ! 
 For such an unexpected knell 
 
 Struck with surprise the strangers all ! 
 " Who's there ? (the testy porter cried) 
 
 That with such vengeance dares to ring ; 
 'Twere meet his manners he had tried, 
 
 That doth such noisy errands bring." 
 " I bear a note, (one answer'd strait;) 
 
 'Tis for fair Ellen's hand alone, 
 And here the lady must I wait, 
 
 Until her answer I have known." 
 To Ellen swift the porter flies, 
 
 And strait the stranger's message brought ; 
 Quick to the gate the lady flies, 
 
 And from a page receives the note ; 
 With which she to her chamber flew, 
 Its contents all in haste to prove ; 
 But how was she surpris'd to view, 
 
 Subscrib'd — " Your Musgrave, in the grove!" 
 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 In this he had a plan propos'd, 
 
 In which their mutual interests shar'd ; 
 A plan with which fair Ellen clos'd, 
 
 And strait a feign'd reply prepar'd. 
 Then to the hall again she hied, 
 
 Where all the guests expectant staid : 
 " What is the news, (her father cried,) 
 
 What was that note, my pretty maid ?' 
 " 'Tis from my charming cousin Kate, 
 
 Of Brayton hall ; who sends to me, 
 That, since she's been inform'd so late, 
 
 She begs that she excus'd may be : 
 But promises, some future day, 
 
 When all our bustle is got through, 
 She'll come, and at our castle stay, 
 
 And spend with me a week or two." 
 So said — with her suppos'd reply 
 
 Again she hastens to the gate ; 
 The page commands aloud to fly, 
 
 And bear her scroll to cousin Kate. 
 But, at that instant, from the trees, 
 
 Brave Musgrave and his trusty train 
 Rush forth, the trembling Ellen seize, 
 
 And bear her fainting o'er the plain ! 
 Each to his courser nimbly springs, 
 
 Fair Ellen, Musgrave rode behind ; 
 Love, join'd with fear, supplies them wings, 
 
 Aud off they scamper like the wind. 
 
 
 I 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 81 
 
 O'er Scaleby moor their route they took, 
 
 The Esk they forded one and all ; 
 Nor stopp'd they once for burn nor brook, 
 
 Until they reach'd Gillknockie hall : 
 Here Johnny Armstrong- held his seat, 
 
 Of Cumbrian marches then the pest, 
 And here they found a safe retreat, 
 
 For here what pow'r could them molest ! 
 The bravest baron of the North 
 
 At Armstrong's name would shake with dread; 
 For, when he led his legions forth, 
 
 Wide terror round the country spread : 
 For full four hundred bowmen bold 
 
 He constant kept within his hall, 
 And had, as we're by story told, 
 
 Both horse and harness for them all. 
 Now here awhile let Musgrave stay 
 
 In Eskdale, with his Ellen fair; 
 To Corby we retrace our way, 
 
 And view again what's doing there. — 
 The porter from the castle-gate 
 
 Had partly seen fair Ellen's rape, 
 And flew like light'ning to relate 
 
 Her capture, and the foe's escape. 
 Wild uproar thro' the mansion rang'd, 
 
 That loudly echo'd with alarms ; 
 Their merriment to mourning chang'd, 
 
 And all the place resounds to arms. 
 
 M 
 
St THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 "'To arms ! to arms ! (Lord Dacres cried,) 
 
 To horse, my friends, without delay, 
 For treason stalks — my blooming bride, 
 
 The Rose of Corby's snatch'd away ! 
 The fierce freebooters of the North, 
 
 They, doubtless, have my Ellen ta'en ; 
 Then bravely let us sally forth, 
 
 The beauteous captive to regain." 
 Then northward these, and southward those, 
 
 In sooth they wander'd far and near ; 
 But of the luckless ravish'd Rose 
 
 No tale nor tidings could they hear. 
 For, tho' the porter saw the train 
 
 That bore the beauteous bride away, 
 To mark the route that they had ta'en, 
 
 It seems he had no mind to stay. 
 The band thus foil'd in their pursuit, 
 
 Back to the castle slow return ; 
 There, wrapp'd in stupid silence mute, 
 
 Fair Ellen's luckless fate they mourn. 
 " 'Tis strange, (Sir Fergus Bewick cried) 
 
 Who those bold ravishers have been, 
 That could secure the hapless bride, 
 
 And thus escape with her unseen. 
 'T would seem as if from concert she 
 
 Had acted with the men before, 
 For she went to the gate right free, 
 
 Nor her, nor they, have we seen more." 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. S3 
 
 " Now foul befall thee, false Sir Knight, 
 
 (Lord Dacres to Sir Fergus cried) 
 It strikes me now that rival spite 
 
 Hath robb'd me of my beauteous bride. 
 Amaz'd, I thy indifTrence saw, 
 
 Beheld thy coolness with surprise, 
 That could so easily withdraw 
 
 Thy claims from such a precious prize ! 
 Was thy pretended friendship, say, 
 
 But meant to cozen me thy friend ; 
 Meant to seduce my bride away, 
 
 And leave thee hated in the end ? 
 Think not, Sir Fergus, thus to deal 
 
 With me as one thou wouldst despise ; 
 Dacres has a heart to feel, 
 
 He has a hand that shall chastise. 
 For whereso'er the charming maid 
 
 Thou hast conceal'd, or east or west, 
 Be sure that this avenging blade 
 
 Shall force the secret from thy breast." 
 When thus Sir Fergus fierce replied — 
 
 " Lord Dacres, you have charg'd me wrong ; 
 Such words suit ill a Bewick's pride ; 
 
 Such charges can't to me belong. 
 Not one of all the Bewick line 
 
 The name of villain ever knew, 
 Much less shall coward then combim- 
 
 To stigmatize our honour too ! 
 
84 THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 As heav'n's my judge ! I do aver 
 
 T never practis'd on your bride ; 
 Nor basely would with knaves confer, 
 
 Your nuptials thus to set aside. 
 Know, Dacres, Bewick doth despise 
 
 All falsehood, whatsoe'er its aim, 
 As much as he thy rage defies, 
 
 Or values his unblemish'd name. 
 Ere I (believe me on my word) 
 
 To thee in point of honour yield, 
 I'll place my life upon my sword, 
 
 And try my fortune in the field. 
 'Tis true, I once fair Ellen lov'd ; 
 
 But soon relinquished ev'ry claim, 
 Whene'er I knew that disapproved 
 
 Were my addresses by the dame. 
 Canst thou, Lord Dacres, then suppose 
 
 That I could brook such villainy, 
 To rob thee of thy rightful Rose, 
 
 By practises so cowardly ? 
 Ill suits it with our house's pride, 
 
 To be thus slander'd and aspers'd ; 
 Our honour has been often fried, 
 
 Nor was our courage thought the worse. 
 Then think not, Dacres, I shall stand 
 
 And tamely bear a villain's name; 
 With thee I'll try my willing hand, 
 
 And vindicate my injur'd fame." 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 83 
 
 No more they chaff'd with useless words, 
 
 But from the hall, enrag'd, withdrew ; 
 Refulgent flash'd their deadly swords, 
 
 And each to each like lions flew! 
 Sir Fergus aim'd a deadly thrust 
 
 At Dacres' breast — he reel'd — and fell; 
 Writhing with pain, he bites the dust, 
 
 And, cursing, takes his last farewell. 
 But, ere the dire vindictive wound 
 
 Of life that Dacres dispossess'd, 
 His faulchion had a passage found 
 
 Deep in the brave Sir Bewick's breast! 
 Fast thro' the wound life's purple tide 
 
 Rush'd forth, whilst Fergus gasp'd for breath : 
 " I'm innocent ! " (he falt'ring cried,) 
 
 Then clos'd his glimm'ring eyes in death. 
 With gen'ral consternation shook, 
 
 Each knight and baron stood oppress'd : 
 Wild horror star'd in ev'ry look, 
 
 And anger rose in ev'ry breast, 
 When thus Sir Gilferd Salkeld said 
 
 Unto the strangers in his hall — 
 " 'Tis I that have this ruin made, 
 
 'Tis I am guilty of it all. 
 The fault, the folly, mine are prov'd, 
 
 The damning thought shall hauut me still ; 
 By av'rice and ambition mov'd, 
 
 I thought to force my daughter's will. 
 
86 THE ROSE OF CORBY, 
 
 But, punish'd in my boundless pride, 
 
 Whilst I that folly long may mourn, 
 Fate all those prospects has denied, 
 
 And she, my Rose, shall ne'er return. 
 O Destiny ! my child restore, 
 
 Her presence yet may soothe my pain, 
 Grant me but her, I ask no more, 
 
 And all that's mine is her's again." 
 So pray'd the parent in his grief, 
 
 And heav'n, indulgent, heard his pray'r ; 
 For soon the porter brought relief— 
 
 A letter from his Ellen fair : 
 In this for pardon much she sued, 
 
 Then pleaded in her own defence ; 
 The tears the father's cheeks bedew'd, 
 
 As he exclaim' d — "Just Providence! 
 How wise and wond'rous are thy ways, 
 
 Omniscient justice! Pow'r divine! 
 Man may a thousand projects raise — 
 
 To execute, alone is thine. 
 Yes, Musgrave, thou shalt be. my son ; 
 
 My Ellen shall be doubly dear ; 
 Fate ends what blindly I begun j 
 
 The mandate let me then revere. 
 Those lands which late Lord Dacres held, 
 
 To thee, brave youth, of right belong'd; 
 From them thy grandsire was expell'd, 
 
 And all thy house most basely wrong'd. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 87 
 
 But heav'n, the orphan's faithful ward, 
 
 Decrees that they shall yet be thine; 
 Shall I then rashly disregard 
 
 An ordinance that seems divine ? 
 Soon shall the king confirm to thee 
 
 What is by legal right thy own ; 
 And I shall haply live to see 
 
 Myself yet happy in a son." 
 The turns of this eventful day, 
 
 The wond'ring croud could but admire; 
 And each preparing for his way, 
 
 Beg'd leave they homeward might retire. 
 " Nay, by my troth, (Sir Gilferd cried,) 
 
 This is what must not, cannot be ; 
 A bridal I must yet provide, 
 
 Since one, my friends, you came to see. 
 My daughter shall be sent for strait, 
 
 And youthful Musgrave with all speed ! 
 Here in my castle shall you wait, 
 
 Until you see how all succeed. 
 Meanwhile, to these two luckless lords, 
 
 Our joint attentions be preferred ; 
 And, tho' the church no rites afford 
 
 To them, "yet must they be interr'd. 
 That done, we here will solemnize 
 
 My daughter's nuptials with all joy, 
 And hope no accident may rise 
 
 Again, our pleasure to destroy- 
 
J THE ROSE OF CORBY. 
 
 Then straitway for Gillknockie hall 
 
 A trusty courier they provide, 
 The lovely Ellen to recall, 
 
 And Musgrave, now old Salkeld's pride. 
 With ready speed the servant flew, 
 
 Nor ling' ring- lagg'd, nor look'd behind, 
 Till Armstrong's castle struck his view, 
 
 Near where the Esk and Liddle join'd. 
 Soon as the massy doors unbarr'd, 
 
 The first that he discover'd there 
 Was Musgrave, walking in the yard, 
 
 And by his side young Ellen fair. 
 " What news! what news ! (the lady cried,) 
 
 What news from Corby bring'st thou me ?" 
 " Good news, fair dame, (the page replied,) 
 
 Far better than you thought 'twould be. 
 Lord Dacres did Sir Fergus blame 
 
 For your escape ; with all his main, 
 Their quarrel rose — at length they came 
 
 To weapons, and they both are slain. 
 Soon as your then afflicted sire 
 
 Your letter got, his tears he dried, 
 And now avows his sole desire 
 
 That you shall be young Musgrave's bride. 
 And I am by Sir Gilferd sent 
 
 To hasten your return likewise ; 
 For it is now his fix'd intent 
 
 Your nuptials there to solemnize. 
 
THE ROSE OF CORBY. 89 
 
 And Musgrave is declar'd the heir 
 
 Of all Lord Dacres' vast domains, 
 Which once his predecessors' were, 
 
 And which he now by right obtains." 
 " Well, thanks for thy auspicious tale, 
 
 (Fair Ellen to the servant said) 
 When I arrive in Eden vale, 
 
 Thy tidings shall be well repaid." 
 So said — a friendly leave they took 
 
 Of Armstrong and his merry band, 
 The Scotian borders strait forsook, 
 
 And post away to Cumberland. 
 And mickle joy was there, I ween, 
 
 At Corby Castle on that day, 
 When safe returning home were seen 
 
 Young Musgrave and his lady gay. 
 With cheerful glee the bells were rung, 
 
 Whilst transport glisten'd thro' the hall, 
 And rich and poor, and old and young, 
 
 At Corby found a welcome call. 
 And long and happy liv'd the pair, 
 
 With ev'ry bliss that reason knows, 
 And heav'n's best joys may Corby share! 
 
 Which yet can boast a peerless Rose ! 
 
SIR ADAM OF CROOK DAKE. 
 
 A LEGENDARY TALE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 Crook Dake is an inconsiderable hamlet, about five miles west from 
 Wigton, in Cumberland, where stands a hall of some antiquity. 
 We know that the existence of a troubled spirit of a lady, who 
 was supposed to be murdered here, and who still continues to 
 haunt the mansion, often making her midnight excursions two 
 or three miles from the place, to the great terror and annoyance 
 of the country people, is as generally believed as is the existence 
 of Crook Dake Hall itself, (I mean by the credulous of that 
 neighbourhood.) We are not in possession of many biographical 
 Anecdotes of Sir Adam ; and indeed, the most we know of him 
 is, that in the church wall of Broomfield there is a niche, con • 
 taining a stone coffin bearing this inscription : 
 
 HERE LIES ENTOMBED, I DARE UNDERTAKE, 
 THAT MIGHTY WARRIOR SIR ADAM OF CROOK DAKE, 
 
 KNIGHT. 
 
 He died sometime in the forepart of the sixteenth century, and 
 has probably been one of those heroes who rendered themselves 
 illustrious in the moss-trooping wars, as the frontier counties of 
 both England and Scotland were in those times in most calami- 
 tous situations, being under continual alarm, and perpetually 
 exposed to assaults and invasion, and very frequently the borders 
 or' both kingdoms suffering, by turns, the most horrible ravages 
 of predatory warfare. 
 
 THE TALE. 
 
 V/F all the chieftains of the North, 
 
 Since fam'd Sir Launcelot Du Lake, 
 Not one that led their vassals forth, 
 Could boast more valour or more worth 
 Than brave Sir Adam of Crook Dake. 
 
OF CROOK DAKE. 'Jl 
 
 When clad in armour, glitt'ring bright, 
 The threats of war the hero scored : 
 Still foremost in the thick'ning fight, 
 Both friends and foes confess'd his might, 
 Whilst dignity his brows adorn'd. 
 
 Far scatter' d lay his vast domain, 
 
 Whilst crowds of menials throng' d his hall ; 
 
 Five hundred warriors of his train 
 
 He yearly muster 1 d on the plain, 
 With horse and harness for them all. 
 
 When England's pow'rs great Surry led 
 
 To meet proud James on Flodden's field, 
 There, at his valiant legions' head, 
 The Knight thro' fair Northumbria sped, 
 With shining helmet, lance, and shield. 
 
 Here, 'midst the furious rage of war, 
 
 The champion like a lion press'd ; 
 Whilst fell dismay before his car 
 Proclaim'd his prowess from afar, 
 
 And vict'ry hover'd o'er his crest. 
 
 Uncertain long the conflict stood, 
 
 With equal strife the battle rag'd ; 
 Whilst Tweed pour'd down a crimson rlood, 
 And ev'ry furrow stream'd with blood, 
 
 Where ire with equal ire engag'd. 
 
92 SIR ADAM 
 
 Where'er Sir Adam led his train, 
 
 Changed was the aspect of the fray ; 
 Before him heaps on heaps are slain, 
 That check, his course, and dye the plain, 
 Whilst devastation marks his way. 
 
 At length, by force superior press'd, 
 The Scots forsake the carnag'd field ; 
 
 And night, in gloomiest darkness dress'd, 
 
 Pursuit and slaughter to arrest, 
 
 Descends, and either host conceal'd. 
 
 Nor till returning morning's light, 
 Wist Surry of the foes' dismay ; 
 
 But, under arms, the troops all night 
 
 Repose, to recommence the fight 
 With the commencement of the day. 
 
 Up rose the sun, with dazzling glare, 
 
 O'er Cheviot's hills and Noreham's tow'rs ; 
 
 Whilst all the host, with busy care, 
 
 For the renewing fight prepare, 
 And Surry musters all his pow'rs. 
 
 Along the Tweed the length'ning lines 
 To east and west their front extend; 
 
 The Chief to each concern inclines, 
 
 To each his proper part assigns, 
 
 Shews where t' attack, and where defend. 
 
OF CROOK DAKE. 93 
 
 But what surprise possession took 
 
 Of each expecting warrior's face, 
 When with th' increasing light they look, 
 To find the Scottish camp forsook, 
 
 Nor one alive left near the place. 
 
 Conceal'd by night the Snots had fled, 
 
 And left the hard- contested plain ; 
 Around the gore-stain'd space was spread, 
 With heaps on heaps of mangled dead, 
 
 And e'en their valiant prince was slain. 
 
 Till now suspense uncertain sway'd 
 
 Each soldier's breast with anxious care, 
 
 But, when no more on high display'd 
 
 The hostile ensigns are survey'd, 
 
 Loud shouts of triumph rend the air. 
 
 Awhile for short refreshment pass'd, 
 
 The English quit the crimson'd plain, 
 And, marching by the trumpet's blast, 
 The Northern borders leave with haste, 
 For their respective homes again. t 
 
 Sir Adam, with his valiant band, 
 
 Up Tivot Dale their journey take; 
 But, ere they march'd, he gave command 
 That none to halt should stop nor stand. 
 
 Till safely landed at Crook Dake. 
 
94 SIR ADAM 
 
 Well pleas'd, they wander'd all the night, 
 
 O'er bog and burn, full many a mile, 
 But fair they view, by morning light, 
 Not distant far, to glad their sight, 
 The lofty tow'rs of fair Carlisle. 
 
 Well pleas'd, the weary troop survey 
 
 The well-known prospects scatter'd round ; 
 And as they nimbly post away, 
 Each bosom cheers, each face looks gay, 
 As if new spirits they had found. 
 
 And when they to the city came, 
 
 Loud shouts of vict'ry they raise ; 
 With louder shouts the crowd proclaim 
 The fall of Scotland — England's fame, 
 And valiant brave Sir Adam's praise! 
 
 From hence a herald flies to bear 
 
 The tidings, with what haste may be; 
 
 And to direct his lady fair 
 
 A splendid banquet to prepare, 
 For him and his brave company. 
 
 And now their march afresh begun, 
 
 Forth thro' the western gate they take ; 
 
 With eager steps they onward run, 
 
 And, long before the setting sun, 
 
 The gallant squadron reach Crook Dake. 
 
OP CTtOOK DAKE. 9-0 
 
 Here, sounds of music charm their ears, 
 
 And shouts of welcome glad their hearts; 
 Fatigue is fled to join their fears, 
 Each face the smile of pleasure wears, 
 For each to each his joy imparts. 
 
 Meanwhile the knight, with courteous care, 
 
 Around on all indulgent smiles; 
 Directs the servants to prepare 
 The banquet, that his friends may share 
 
 His bounty, as they shar'd his toils. 
 
 And soon the spacious board is crown'd 
 
 With choicest viands, dress 1 d with grace; 
 Whilst music lends its cheering sound, 
 And swift the copious bowl goes round, 
 And noisy mirth pervades the place. 
 
 The knight's fair lady on the throng, 
 Pleas'd as her lord, indulgence smiles ; 
 
 The minstrels raise the martial song, 
 
 The vaulted roof the sounds prolong, 
 And ev'ry heart forgets its toils. 
 
 Fair Catharine was a lady bright, 
 
 For beauty widely known to fame ; 
 Her fortune might no baron slight, 
 ►Sole heiress of a wealthy knight, 
 
 Sir Guy De Valibus by name. 
 
96 SIR ADAM 
 
 Her lord's return she saw, well pleas'd, 
 
 Victorious, safe, from Flodden's fight; 
 His happiness, she thought, increas'd 
 The zest of their convivial feast, 
 
 Which joy t'improve seem'd her delight. 
 
 Dame Catharine had a cousin fair, 
 
 Young Maud, for beauty fam'd was she, 
 
 Her father's darling, and his care, 
 
 Who was a baron, rich as rare, 
 For lord of Millham then was he. 
 
 Full swift the mirthful moments flew, 
 Loud laughter rung throughout the hall ; 
 
 The bowl capacious they renew, 
 
 With bumpers drench'd, the clam'rous crew 
 Forgot fatigue, respect, and all. 
 
 In fact, the can was briskly toss'd, 
 For goblet fast on goblet press'd ; 
 Sir Adam he, the knightly host, 
 Seem'd all reflection to have lost, 
 And madly bruited with the rest ! 
 
 Thus lost to sense, the beauteous dame, 
 
 Fair Maud, all blooming, met his eyes; 
 His bosom caught a lawless flame, 
 Which reason was not left to tame, 
 Nor calmer prudence to advise. 
 
OF CROOK DAKE. 97 
 
 Long basely he occasion'd watch'd, 
 
 His foul desires to gratify ; 
 The maid went forth, the trice he snatch'd, 
 And in his arms the fair one catch'd» 
 
 And forc'd her, struggling, to comply. 
 
 Thus vvrong'd, debauch'd, without consent, 
 The beauteous fair one, in her prime, 
 
 Is forc'd, howe'er she may repent, 
 
 The knight's exposure to prevent, 
 To repetitions of her crime! 
 
 So, from a frequency of sin, 
 
 Which Maud, perhaps, at first might mourn ; 
 Who, tho' reluctant to begin, 
 Is now in guilt so far stepp'd in, 
 
 The greater task is to return. 
 
 Long their illicit commerce pass'd 
 Without a bar their bliss t' annoy ; 
 
 But shameful pregnancy at last 
 
 Threatens their intercourse to blast, 
 And shame at once their guilty joy. 
 
 Poor Maud, now conscious of her state, 
 
 With keen remorse and shame oppress'd, 
 In secret mourns her hapless fate, 
 Curses her crime, when now too late ; 
 But conscience never lets her rest. 
 
 o • 
 
98 SIR ADAM 
 
 Fast from her cheek the roses fade, 
 Her charms to captivate now Gease ; 
 
 A sickly langour cfeth pervade 
 
 Those eyes, which once such charms display'd 
 In days of innocence and peace. 
 
 Where now to hide her guilty shame, 
 How should the fair deluded know ; 
 To none ©an she her griefs proclaim, 
 No cause for all her sorrows blame, 
 But he, the author of her woe. 
 
 To him she makes her plaintive moan, 
 To hinj she tells her hapless tale ; 
 
 But foul reflections of his own, 
 
 His bosom occupy alone, 
 
 And little boots her bitter bale. 
 
 Indeed he tries to sooth her erief, 
 
 And kindly solace would impart; 
 But say, what tongue can speak relief, 
 When conscience, like a guilty thief, 
 Incessant haunts th' affrighted heart ? 
 
 In guilt c#mniutual, so in woe ; 
 
 From neither, neither hope can find ; 
 As from one common channel flow 
 Their crimes, one common grief they know, 
 
 And each afflicts each other's mind. 
 
OF CROOK DAKE, 
 
 Grown tir'd with ev'ry social sport, 
 Poor Maud each busy circle shuns. 
 
 Oft to the forest would resort, 
 
 Relief from solitude to court, 
 
 Yet meets that woe from which she ruaa 
 
 It chanc'd one ev'ning with the knight 
 
 A walk the wailing- damsel took ; 
 The twinkling stars scarce lent their light, 
 Loud blew the wind, cold was the night, 
 As slow they wander' d near the brook. 
 
 Hoarse croak'd the raven 'mongst the trees, 
 
 The screech owl shriek'd with hideous spream 
 When, lo ! Sir Adam stopp'd, to seize 
 The hapless fair one, and, with ease, 
 He plung'd her headlong in the stream ! 
 
 In vain she shriek'd — no aid was nigh — 
 Deep was the pool with recent rain : 
 
 And if poor Maud should haply try 
 
 To swim, Sir Adam, standing by, 
 Remorseless, dash'd her down again ! 
 
 Home to his house Sir Adam flies, 
 And mingles with the jocund train ; 
 
 But cheerfulness he vainly tries, 
 
 His countenance his heart belies, 
 And ev'ry effort proves in vain. 
 
100 SIR ADAM 
 
 " Where is my lovely cousin Maud ? 
 
 (Dame Catharine said) where doth she stay ? 
 I ne'er could charge her yet with fraud, 
 But now, methinks, I can't applaud 
 
 At midnight stealing thus away." 
 
 The midnight pass'd, the rosy dawn 
 Return'd, but brought not Maud \ fair; 
 
 They sought her all across the lawn, 
 --But found her not, till near withdrawn, 
 
 They sought the brook, and found her there! 
 
 Fair Catharine mourn'd for Maud right sore, 
 Sir Adam feign'd to do the same ; 
 
 Her corpse six spotless virgins bore 
 
 To her cold grave, and all deplore 
 The fate of this unhappy dame. 
 
 But now her sndly-injur'd shade 
 
 Sir Adam haunts, Loth night and day ; 
 
 Stung with remorse, with fear dismay'd, 
 
 He shuns the city and the shade, 
 
 But finds no peace, change where he may ! 
 
 Thus horrew, unallay'd, doth dwell 
 Within the guilty conscious breast; 
 
 Each mental comfort to dispel, 
 
 And in the heart erects a hell, 
 That never lets the villain rest. 
 
OF CROOK DAKE. 101 
 
 One ev'ning, with his friends around, 
 
 Sir Adam sat within his hall ; 
 When, lo ! the bell, with solemn souud; 
 Struck — one ! — The awful knell profound, 
 
 With horror quite surprised them all. 
 
 Loud bursts of thunder rend the air! 
 
 Which seem'd to shake the fabric's base ; 
 Successive quick the light'nings glare 
 Each bosom melts with dire despair, * 
 
 And heart-felt horror marks each face. 
 
 And next a dreadful shriek was heard, 
 
 Like one that doth for succour call; 
 The windows shook, the doors were stirr'd, 
 When, by the glimm'ring lights appeared 
 
 A spectre ! standing in the hall ! 
 
 All dripping wet, with frightful meiii, 
 
 A skeleton appear' d the face ; 
 And in those holes where eyes had beei>, 
 Two filthy pebbles might be seen, 
 
 And slime besmear' d the vacant space ! 
 
 The crowd with consternation look, 
 
 Unknowing how to act or say ; 
 But most the knight with horror shook, 
 His heart sensation quite forsook, 
 
 And, stunn'd with fear, he swoon'd away ! 
 
102 SIR ADAM 
 
 When thus, with more than tinman sound, 
 The phantom broke the aw Jul pause : — 
 " Rise up, base man ! can I confound, 
 Or drive with fear a wretch to ground, 
 That dares defy all human laws ? 
 
 " Was't not enough, perfidious knight, 
 
 My honour first to violate ! 
 In hospitality's despite, 
 Unguarded, 'mid the gloom of night, 
 
 But murder, too, to perpetrate ! 
 
 " What tho* no eye was by to look, 
 No ear to hear, nor arm to stay, 
 When you, by force, my honour took, 
 Or when you plung'd me in the brook, 
 Yet near is retribution's day. 
 
 " That all my wrongs aveng'd shall be, 
 
 Eternal justice has decreed; 
 This dagger here accept from me, 
 And when I claim it aext from thee, 
 
 Prepare to follow me with speed I" 
 
 So said — she toss'd the blade to ground, 
 
 When strait a hideous shriek was heard 
 Without, terrific thunders sound* 
 V* ithin, blue flames-fly hissing round, 
 And quick the spectre disappear'd ! 
 
OF CROOK DAKE. 103 
 
 Til 1 affrighted company withdraw, 
 
 Confounded at the horrid scene ; 
 So much their minds were filTd with awe, 
 They scarcely trusted what they saw, 
 
 Nor recollected what had been. 
 
 Fell horror fill'd Sir Adam's breast, 
 And conscience, with its fell dismay; 
 
 The pangs of hell his heart infest, 
 
 Go where he will he cannot rest, 
 
 The murder haunts him night and day ! 
 
 Thus shall the base deceiver know, 
 
 Tho' guilt, unpunish'd for a time 
 May pass, yet justice sure, but slow, 
 Unerring aims th' impending blow, 
 
 Nor pass'd by heav'n is such a crime. 
 
 Nor long the knight unsnmmon'd stay'd, 
 
 His various crimes to answer for ; 
 The ghost of Maud, much -injur 1 d maid, 
 Returu'd, and claim'd the fatal blade, 
 
 She, as a token, left before. 
 
 O'ercome with horror at the sight, 
 With guilt and fear alike oppress'd ; 
 
 Urg'd to despair, the cruel knight, 
 
 Quite frantic, in his friends' despite, 
 The dagger plung'd into his breast ! 
 
104 SIR ADAM OF CROOK DAKE. 
 
 So fell Sir Adam of Crook Dake : 
 
 So may all guilty villains fall ! 
 But, if 'tis true what neighbours speak, 
 Strange gambols doth the lady make, 
 Ev'n to this day, at Crook Dake Hall. 
 
 At midnight, by the moon's pale beam, 
 
 Oft will she glide across the moor ; 
 Or wander near the fatal stream, 
 And with remember'd horror scream, 
 And fright the lone benighted boor. 
 
ARTHURS CAVE. 
 
 9 a* BcnUari) tCalr. 
 
 Such was the veneration and esteem in which King" Arthur was held 
 by his subjects, on account of bis personal prowess and other 
 extraordinary virtues, that, even after tbe battle in which he 
 Mas slain, righting with his cousin Modred, his faithful and 
 steady adherents, the Ancient Britons, could never be persuad- 
 ed of his death ; for, as they had ever known him victorious in 
 arms, they have been led to believe that he enjoyed immortality; 
 and seeing, after the conflict, he was no where to be found in 
 his native country, they concluded he had retired in disgust from 
 a country which had been thus basely abandoned^ and treacher- 
 ously surrendered to the usurpation and oppressions of the inso- 
 lent Saxons ; and that he was then travelling through fairy land 
 in quest of adventures — such as fighting with formidable giants, 
 encountering and destroying dragons, and other monsters, and 
 rescuing from the hands of cruel necromancers and others, 
 many oppressed knights and damsels : nay, so long had the 
 prevalency of this opinion continued, that in the reign of Henry 
 the Second, a body happening, by chance, to be dug up near 
 Glastonbury Abbey, without any symptoms of putrefaction or 
 decay, the Welsh, the descendants of the Ancient Britons, tena- 
 cious of the dignity and reputation of that illustrious hero, vainly 
 supposed it could be no other than the body of their justly boast- 
 ed Pen-Dragon; and that he had been immured in that sepul- 
 chre by the spells of some powerful and implacable enchanter. 
 Unaccountable are the stories of this sort that are related of 
 him ; and numberless are the volumes of romance to which his 
 imaginary adventures owe their foundation. Amongst the rest, 
 the following is one ; a legend well known in the county of 
 Northumberland, and is there said to have happened at a place 
 called Sboe-aud-Shield. The story might, perhaps, with as 
 much propriety, be placed at Penzance, at Beiwick-upou- 
 Tweed, or at John-o-Groat's house. 
 P 
 
106 ARTHUR'S CAVE. 
 
 THE TALE. 
 
 XjOljD o'er Cumbria's mountains howling 
 Blew the whirlwind bleak and chill, 
 
 And the silent snow fast falling, 
 Heap'd its drifts on ev'ry hill. 
 
 Dark the night was cold and dreary, 
 Moon nor star could mortal ken, 
 
 And the fleaky tempest whirling, 
 Levell'd fast each hill and glen. 
 
 Whilst the hoarse loud winds fierce raging, 
 Thro' the darksome desert sound ; 
 
 And the sturdy oaks outbattled, 
 Bow their lofty heads to ground. 
 
 In a night thus dark and dreadful 
 Bertrand wander'd thro' the dale, 
 
 In the boundless waste bewilder'd, 
 Sinking 'neath the piercing gale. 
 
 Fearful of each step he ventur'd, 
 
 For the buried gulph beneath ; 
 Lost in darkness, and unshelter'd, 
 
 All around seem'd certain death. 
 
ARTHUR'S CAVE. 107 
 
 Not a sound his ear attracted, 
 
 Save the whirlwind's deaf ning blast ; 
 
 Not a ray of light ilium' d him, 
 Save the snow bewildering waste. 
 
 Horror-struck, benumb'd, and fainting, 
 Down the dale poor Bertrand drew ; 
 
 When, least hop'd, a shelt'ring cavern 
 Close at hand appear'd in view. 
 
 Ne'er was kindly inn more welcome 
 
 To the weary pilgrim's feet ; 
 Ne'er unto the sea-rock'd sailor 
 
 Was the wish'd-for port more sweet. 
 
 In the storm-struck stranger ventur'd ; 
 
 Darkness compass'd him around ; 
 And an universal silence, 
 
 Save the tempest's bellowing sound. 
 
 More within the cave retiring, 
 
 From the dullness of the night ; 
 Through the circling gloom he fancied 
 
 He beheld a glimm'ring light. 
 
 Tho' it feeble seem'd, and distant, 
 
 Yet it cheer'd his sinking hopes ; 
 And, with careful steps, the stranger 
 
 Onward thro' the cavern gropes : 
 
108 Arthur's cave. 
 
 At each step that he advances, 
 
 Nearer beams the bright'ning blaze ; 
 
 And, ere long-, a scene presents him 
 That might wonder's self amaze, 
 
 Here appear'd a hall most spacious, 
 Gaily lamp'd and lighted round ; 
 
 Tables spread in ample order, 
 And fresh rushes on the ground. 
 
 In the midst a princely figure, 
 
 Sleeping on a pallet lay, 
 And a goodly groupe around him, 
 
 Gallant knights and ladies gay. 
 
 Yet the whole seem'd wrapp'd in slumber, 
 Nothing breath'd about the place ; 
 
 Tho' the bloom of youth and beauty 
 Sat confessed in ev'ry face ; 
 
 Finely wrought, a burnish'd helmet 
 Lay beside the prince's head ; 
 
 And upon the casque refulgent, 
 
 Wreath'd, a dragon's form was spread. 
 
 Heaps of shields and glitt'ring lances 
 Stood reclin'd against the wall ; 
 
 Coats of mail and other armour 
 Lay confus'd about the hall. 
 
ARTHUR'S CAVE. 109 
 
 Miite with awe, and lost in wonder, 
 Bertrand stood and view'd the scene ; 
 
 But a grate, well barr'd and bolted, 
 Stood the whole and him between. 
 
 On one hand a winding bugle, 
 
 Hung suspended by a chain, 
 This he seized ; but fear arising, 
 
 Quick he laid it down again. 
 
 In its sheath a shining faulchion, 
 
 On the other hand was laid ; 
 Bertrand, curious to behold it, 
 
 Halt' unsheath'd the shining blade. 
 
 As he drew the blade, the sleepers 
 Rais'd their heads, and deeply mourn'd; 
 
 This he saw, but, struck with horror, 
 To its sheath the blade return'd. 
 
 As the sword into the scabbard 
 
 Bertrand thrust with might and main, 
 
 So the groupe of hapless sleepers 
 Laid them down and slept again ! 
 
 But the distant rays of morning 
 
 Thro' the cave began to dawn ; 
 Bertrand, famish'd, cold and weary. 
 
 Left the cell to seek the lawn. 
 
110 Arthur's cave. 
 
 Yet, as thro' the dreary windings 
 Slow he sought the mazy way, 
 
 From within a voice came sounding, 
 Thus, aloud, was heard to say : 
 
 " Woe to thee, ill-fated Bertrand, 
 Woe that ever thou wast born ; 
 
 That wouldst neither draw the falchion, 
 Nor yet sound the fatal horn !" 
 
 Heedless of th' uncommon menace, 
 Homeward hied the weary boor ; 
 
 Thro' the snow, now deeply drifted, 
 O'er the mountain and the moor. 
 
 Sometimes sinking, sometimes sliding, 
 Long he fought the bitter gale ; 
 
 Home at last he gains, quite jaded, 
 Where he tells the wond'rous tale. 
 
 Vers'd in legendary story, 
 
 List'ning swains their verdict gave, 
 That from Bertrand's plain relation, 
 
 This must be King Arthur's cave. 
 
 Where, as common fame reported, 
 
 By a vile magician's spell, 
 That brave prince and court lay sleeping, 
 
 In a solitary cell ! 
 
Arthur's cave. Ill 
 
 Off with speed the rustics rambled, 
 
 Bent to free this hapless train ; 
 Thro' each glen, and round each mountain, 
 
 Long they sought, but sought in vain. 
 
 Nothing like the cave presented, 
 
 Nothing like the place was seen ; 
 Home they turn'd, all disappointed, 
 
 Tir'd with ranging, vex'd with spleen. 
 
 Oft among the moorlands dreary 
 
 Bertrand sought the place alone ; 
 But in vain ; for, to this moment, 
 
 Arthur's cave remains unknown. 
 
THE 
 
 MESSENGER OF DEATH. 
 
 XVlSE from your couch, fair Lady Jane, 
 And drive the slumbers from your ee', 
 Rise from your couch, fair Lady Jane, 
 For I have tidings brought for thee.'' 
 
 But seldom slumbers Lady Jane, 
 But seldom visits sleep her ee' ; 
 
 O'er-wakeful render' d by her woe, 
 
 Yet, say, what tidings bring'st thou me ? 
 
 Loud blust'ring howls the wintry gale, 
 
 Hark ! how the neighb'ring torrents pour ! 
 
 I fear 'tis but some wanton wight, 
 
 That mocks me at this midnight hour. 
 
 " Shake ofF thy slumbers, Lady Jane, 
 Rise from thy couch, and come away ; 
 
 Shake off thy slumbers, Lady Jane, 
 For I'm in haste, and must not stay." 
 
OF DEATH. 113 
 
 " Say, stranger, what can be thy haste, 
 Or what may this thine errand be ? 
 
 From whom and wherefore art thou sent ; 
 Or say what tidings bring'st thou me ? 
 
 " Lord Walter, he my wedded Lord, 
 Now wins on fair Hesperia's plains, 
 
 Where proud Britannia's banners fly, 
 Where death and devastation reigns ! 
 
 " Three months are scarcely pass'd and gone, 
 Tho' three long tedious months to me, 
 
 Since brave Lord Walter left these arms, 
 And with his squadrons put to sea. 
 
 u Tho' long and tedious seems the time, 
 
 Yet well I ween too short by far, 
 To think of news from him my Lord, 
 
 Or tidings from the woeful war/' 
 
 " Rise from thy couch, fair Lady Jane, 
 Rise from thy couch and follow me ; 
 
 'Tis from Lord Walter's self I come, 
 I am his messenger to thee." 
 
 " Bleak o'er the heath the whirlwind blows, 
 
 Fast falls the rain, as fast can be; 
 
 Yet, since thou bear'st my Lord's behest, 
 
 I'll leave my couch, and come to thee. 
 a 
 
114 THE MESSENGER 
 
 " But tell me, stranger, tell me where 
 Lord Walter wins, and how he fares ; 
 
 For tho' from him I fain would hear, 
 My bosom labours with its cares. 
 
 " Would it become Lord Walter's wife, 
 Would it become his Lady Jane, 
 
 At midnight hour to leave her couch, 
 And with a stranger walk the plain ?" 
 
 ♦'Rise from thy couch, thou Lady Jane, 
 Arise, and make no more delay ; 
 
 The night's far spent, and I'm in haste, 
 And here I must no longer stay. 
 
 " Near where the foaming Derwent rolls 
 Its"currents westward to the sea, 
 
 There on the beach, by Solway's side, 
 Lord Walter anxious waits for thee.*' 
 
 Swift to her well-known master's call, 
 Up from the brake the falcon springs, 
 
 And to the whistling summons hies, 
 In eager speed, on outstretch'd wings. 
 
 So from her conch sprang Lady Jane; 
 
 In sooth, she was not slack nor slow, 
 Nor fear'd she once the drenching rain, 
 
 Nor car'd she how the winds might blow. 
 
• 
 
 OF DEATH. 115 
 
 And she's put on her kertle green, 
 Her scarf and mantle made of blue 
 
 And donn'd her up wi' mickle haste, 
 Her midnight journey to pursue. 
 
 And she's unbarr'd the outer door, 
 
 And ventur'd 'midst the wind and rain, 
 
 And with the urgent stranger sped, 
 All storm-struck o'er the dreary plain. 
 
 O'er hill and dale, thro' bog and burn, 
 And many a glen they swiftly hied ; 
 
 Nor spoke they once, nor stopp'd, nor stay'd. 
 Until they reach'd the Solway side. 
 
 The night was dark, the boist'rous main 
 Impetuous dash'd against the shore ; 
 
 And oft the water sprite was heard 
 To shriek with loud terrific roar ! 
 
 " Where is my love ? (said Lady Jane) 
 O bring Lord Walter quick to me ; 
 
 I see the sea, I see the shore, 
 
 But no Lord Walter can I see." 
 
 " Lady Jane, (the stranger cried) 
 Fair Lady, ever kind and true; 
 
 Why shrink you thus with foolish fear? 
 Lord Walter's spirit speaks to vou! 
 
lit) THE MESSENGER 
 
 " In Biscay's well-known stormy bay, 
 Our vessel sank, no more to rise ; 
 
 There, buried in a wat'ry grave, 
 
 All cold, thy long-lov'd husband lies. 
 
 "Constant and kind to me in life, 
 
 Thou held'st dominion o'er ray heart; 
 
 Our love was mutual ; then, shall death, 
 Our love, so well established, part?" 
 
 Cold horror seiz'd fair Lady Jane, 
 Her frame with deadly terror shook ; 
 
 An icy coldness chill'd her blood, 
 And motion ev'ry pulse forsook. 
 
 With silent and insensate stare, 
 
 She view'd the spectre o'er and o'er, 
 
 But such an awful hideous sight 
 Her eyes had never seen before. 
 
 All deadly meagre gloom'd his face, 
 Of flesh by hideous monsters stripp'd ; 
 
 Sea-bubbles fill'd his vacant eyes, 
 
 And from his clothes the waters dripp'd. 
 
 His temples, once so comely fair, 
 
 Were now with sea- weed compass'd round; 
 
 And filthy coils of tangle foul 
 The parts of his fair body bound. 
 
 » 
 
OF DEATH. II 
 
 When thus, with hollow voice, once more, 
 The phanthom said — -" Howe'er it be, 
 
 You must to-night, fair Lady Jane, 
 Expect to sleep in death with me !" 
 
 She shriek'd, and lifeless on the shore 
 She fell ; when swift a swelling- wave 
 
 Roll'd o'er her, and, with its recoil, 
 Entomb' d her in a wat'ry grave ! 
 
 No more was heard of Lady Jane ; 
 
 Lord Walter he wa& seen no more, 
 Save that the neighbours sometimes see 
 
 Their spirits wander by the shore ; 
 
 And oft amidst the whirlwind's blast 
 Is heard full many a hideous scream, 
 
 And two strange figures often glide 
 Along the side of Derwent stream ! 
 
THE 
 
 WHITE WOMAN 
 
 THE MANNER FROM LEWIS, THOUGH THE TALE IS A FACT. 
 
 J OHANNA had reach'd the meridian of life, 
 
 Was as fair as the blossom in June ; 
 Young- Fred'rick had recently made her his wife, 
 Unenvied they liv'd without care, without strife, 
 And their happiness seem 1 d in its noon. 
 
 Content at her wheel she would cheerfully sing 
 
 Thro' the length of the long summer day ; 
 Whilst he thro' the autumn, the summer, the spring, 
 Industriously toil'd their small pittance to bring, 
 For they both were as frugal as gay. 
 
 One day at the door of the alehouse they sat, 
 
 The villagers seated around ; 
 'Twas holiday time, and their neighbourly chat 
 Gave zest to their liquor, tho' neither was flat, 
 
 As each care in a bumper was drown' d. 
 
THE WHITE WOMAN. 119 
 
 Around within view the whole village it lay, 
 
 Which gave fair Johanna her birth ; 
 Close at hand the old church you might eas'ly survey 
 The tall spreading ash and the steeple so gay, 
 Tho' these objects took not from their mirth. 
 
 For innocence seldom can know that dismay 
 
 That guilt's so oft doom'd to sustain ; 
 The heart of each rustic on that happy day, 
 Beat high with contentment, each visage was gay, 
 And joy seem'd to spread thro' the train. 
 
 When sudden, Johanna, with wild frantic roar, 
 Cried — " Save me ! or else I am gone ! 
 
 The white woman's coming from yon church- 
 yard door ; 
 
 The cruel white woman ! I've seen her before; 
 See ! this way she stalks, all alone." 
 
 " What woman ! (cried Fred'rick, with ghastly 
 surprise) 
 
 What woman ? there's none that I see !" 
 " Yes, yes ; the white woman ! (Johanna replies) 
 Behold her lank form, and her two flaming eyes! 
 
 1 know that she's coming for me! 
 
 " I saw the grave open ! I saw her come out ! 
 
 Her shroud is as white as the snow • 
 Corruption besmears her foul temples about, 
 
120 THE WHITE WOMAN. 
 
 Whilst volumes of worms from her mouth she 
 casts out, 
 She comes for Johanna I know. 
 
 And see! thro' the church-yard in shrouded array 
 
 The spectres and goblins they roam ; 
 They seem with dire menace to chide her delay, 
 And shriek to the white woman, Come, come away, 
 Johanna must come to the tomb ! 
 
 " Like furies but see how they tear up the mould, 
 
 They howl, but how dismally drear! 
 Like footballs the skulls of my kindred are roll'd 
 O'er the graves! — There the ghost of my mother 
 behold ! 
 O save me ! the white woman's here ! 
 
 " I've seen her before ; I remember her well ! 
 
 See ! faster and nearer she draws ! 
 O Fred'rick ! her dreadful approaches repel ; 
 Bear me off — force her back — drive the bedlam 
 to hell! 
 
 Ere I'm touch'd with her skeleton paws. 
 
 " save me! save me! dear Fred'rick, her blast 
 
 Is as cold as is winter's cold breath ! 
 She crawls up my clothes — oh ! have mercy at last, 
 The cruel white woman embraces me fast! 
 And she says that her errand is death. . „ 
 
THE WHITE WOMAN. 121 
 
 "Help! help! my clear Fred'rick ! where are 
 your hands ? 
 
 Those hands poor Johanna should save; 
 The fiend haso'erpowYd him, he motionless stands, 
 Altho' his sad wife the white woman demands, 
 
 And pulls me away to the grave. 
 
 "No! cruel white woman, I'll not come at all, 
 
 My Fred'rick shall bind up my head ; 
 Yet hark ! the fell furies incessantly call, 
 Come, come to yon church-yard, you must, and 
 you shall, 
 For there we've prepar'd your last bed!" 
 
 Delirious and raving-, Johanna was borne 
 To her home, and each cordial applied ; 
 The fate of the poor hapless fair one they mourn, 
 Whilst Fred'rick, all pensive, in anguish forlorn, 
 The live-long night watch'd by her side. 
 
 All night in wild phrenzy, in horror and pain, 
 
 She starts with convulsive affriadit ! 
 She shrieks—" The white woman !" with might 
 
 and with main, 
 " The cruel white woman !" again and again, 
 
 For the phanthom still dwells on her sight. 
 
 R 
 
122 THE WHITE WOMAN. 
 
 Next day more compos'd, with the nightingale's 
 
 lay, 
 
 She sung, by her phrenzy inspired, 
 From morning till ev'ning she carrol'd away, 
 " Begone ! thou white woman ! get from me, I 
 
 say !" 
 Nor once with her song ever tir'd. 
 
 The third morning came, but she made no reply 
 
 To a word that was ask'd or was said ; 
 But, still she kept chaunting — " White woman, 
 
 - out ! fie ! 
 Get hence, foul white woman ! I'll come by 
 and by !"— 
 By eve-tide Johanna was dead ! 
 
THE 
 
 WATER-SPIRIT. 
 
 JLjEATRIX, lovely maiden fair, 
 
 Sat by the river side ; 
 Loose and dishevell'd wav'd her hair, 
 Her bosom to the blast was bare, 
 
 And bitterly she sigh'd. 
 
 The scalding torrents from her eyes 
 
 Had blanch'd her sallow cheek ; 
 Her voice was hoarse with piteous cries, 
 Her heart was sore with bursting sighs, 
 And woes she could not speak. 
 
 Her eyes were blear'd, and languid shone, 
 
 Which once were lovely bright ; 
 The rose-bud from her face was flown, 
 And blasted ere 'twas fully blown, 
 By sorrow's bitter blight. 
 
 Unshelter'd from the chilly blast, 
 
 She sat the live-long day ; 
 And as the whirling eddy pass'd, 
 On it a wistful look she cast, 
 
 But not a word would say. 
 
124 THE WATER-SPIRIT. 
 
 Around her all the warbling throng, 
 
 Their blythest carrols tried ; 
 Unseen by her they skim along 1 , 
 Unheard by her they chaunt their song, 
 
 She only sat and sigh'd. 
 
 The winds with melancholy howl, 
 Deep murmur thro' the wood ; 
 
 The stream grows turbid, black, and foul, 
 
 The waters like a torrent roll, 
 And rage into a flood. 
 
 Beatrix fix'd an earnest look 
 
 Upon the waters near ; 
 When, lo! emerging from the brook, 
 A form she saw, which she mistook 
 
 For one she lov'd most dear. 
 
 "Art thou my Lionel? (she cried,) 
 
 Ah ! whither hast thou been ? 
 Long has Beatrix sat and sigh'd, 
 In bitter anguish hath she cried, 
 On this unshelter'd green. 
 
 " Ah, no, alas ! it cannot be, 
 My eyes have been mista'en ; 
 
 Twelve months are pass'd since hapless he 
 
 Adventur'd on the stormy sea, 
 But ne'er return* d again. 
 
THE WATER-SPIRIT. 12£ 
 
 " The bark, near Scandinavia's shore 
 
 Is founder'd in the deep ; 
 He sunk, with nine brave comrades more, 
 They sleep in death, their voy'ge is o'er, 
 
 And I am left to weep." 
 
 " Why dost thou sit and weep, fair maid ? 
 
 Why dost thou sit and mourn ? 
 Why thus thy golden tresses braid, 
 When he, thy lover, is low laid, 
 
 And never can return ? 
 
 " Beatrix, Lionel thy love 
 
 Now chides thy long delay ; 
 He says, thy ling'ring here doth prove 
 A want of kindness and of love, 
 
 Whatever thou may'st say." 
 
 "What wouldst thou, spirit of the deep. ' 
 
 What wouldst thou have me say ? 
 For him I sigh, for him I weep, 
 For him I sleepless vigils keep, 
 
 As well by night as day. 
 
 " For him I keep my virgin vow, 
 
 For him I pensive pine ; 
 Here sit and view the river flow, 
 Here sit and weep — here vent my woe. 
 
 But solace is not mine." 
 
126 THE WATER-SPIRIT. 
 
 " Ah ! maiden fair, 'tis bootless care, 
 
 To sit and waste thy charms ; 
 Those charms thy Lionel should share, 
 Avail not him — sweet maid, prepare 
 To waft thee to his arms." 
 
 " Where are those arms, that I may fly 
 
 And rush in their embrace? 
 For here a double death I die, 
 My eyes have wept till they are dry, 
 And wither' d is my face. 
 
 " But slowly beats my flutt'ring heart, 
 
 But slowly runs my blood ; 
 My brain runs whirling, and each part, 
 Beats with excruciating smart, 
 
 Which cannot be withstood. 
 
 "But (quickly whispering) spirit, say, 
 What makes thee bend so near ? 
 
 From whence, and whither is thy way ? 
 
 To whom — why dost thou ling'ring stay, 
 And what thy business here ? " 
 
 " I am the monarch of the main, 
 
 Of fountains, and of streams ; 
 Extensive is my mighty reign, 
 My boundless empire doth contain 
 Earth's uttermost extremes. 
 
THE WATER-SPIRIT, 1-7 
 
 " Prom Jutland's icy coast am I, 
 
 Fair maid, to wait on thee ; 
 There doth thy long-lost lover lie, 
 Therefore prepare thee, by and by, 
 
 To-night to lie with me." 
 
 " Foul spirit, I'll not be thy bride, 
 
 I do not like thy metn ; 
 Thy aspect is so blatich'd, beside 
 Thy azure eyes that glare so wide; 
 
 And then thy locks are green ' 
 
 " My Lionel was lovelj fair, 
 
 Was comely to behold, 
 The fairest rose that scents the air 
 Sat on his cheeks, his flowing hair 
 
 Was like the threads of gold. 
 
 " But, spirit, thou hast such a hue, 
 
 With running in the tide, 
 Thy skin so scaly is, and blue, 
 Thy body is mis-shapen too, 
 
 I will not be thy bride.'' 
 
 " Thou shalt not be my bride, fair maid, 
 
 That wish'd 1 not to be ; 
 But he thy lover, thus hath said, 
 (In ocean's pearly couch now laid,) 
 
 " Go, bring my love to me." 
 
128 THE WATER-SPIRIT. 
 
 " O gentle spirit of the deep, 
 
 In verity declare, 
 Dost thou the peaceful chambers keep 
 Where my lov'd Lionel doth sleep, 
 
 Or can'st thou help me there ?" 
 
 " Fair maiden thou shalt go with me, 
 
 I'll bear thee to his bed ; 
 The tritons they shall play for thee, 
 With sparkling 1 crowns of coral, we 
 
 Will decorate thy head." 
 
 " peaceful spirit, let me fly, 
 
 I long to reach the place ; 
 
 There shall my Lionel and I 
 
 In undisturb'd embraces lie, 
 
 Shall endlessly embrace." 
 
 She lean'd upon the spirit's hand, 
 Her limbs were stiff and cold; 
 
 And she has totter'd to the strand ; 
 
 But at the river made a stand ; 
 The enterprize was bold. 
 
 But he has urg'd the fair one on, 
 
 And cries — " Come, come away, 
 Beatrix, we must hence begone, 
 For time and tide will wait for none — 
 And, hark ! he chides thy stay." 
 
THE WATER- SPIRIT. 
 
 129 
 
 But hear her scream — " Ah ! me, 1 sink ! 
 
 The water stops my breath ; 
 My heart will burst ! — my spirits shrink ! 
 The draught of destiny I drink !" 
 
 She said — and sank in death, 
 * 
 
JOHNNY BROWN 
 
 AND 
 
 GRANNY BELL. 
 
 \JLD Johnny Brown liv'd up yon hill, 
 Old Granny Bell liv'd on the moor ; 
 
 Now, Johnny Brown was very rich, 
 But Granny Bell was very poor : 
 
 His coffers groan'd with hoarded wealth, 
 His spacious barns were fill'd with corn ; 
 
 Unnumber'd flocks were in his fold, 
 But greedier wretch was never born. 
 
 Poor Granny Bell was turn'd fourscore, 
 Bent down with age and poverty ; 
 
 Decrepid grown, and weak with want, 
 The poorest of the poor was she. 
 
 Hence from their various fates ensued, 
 Of being poor, and being rich, 
 
 That Johnny Brown was reckon'd wise, 
 Aiid*Granny Bell was call'd a witch. 
 
JOHNNY BROWN AND GRANNY BELL. 131 
 
 In bleak December, when the snows, 
 Deep drifted o'er the moors, were spread, 
 
 She hobbled up to Johnny's house, 
 To beg" a morsel of his bread. 
 
 " Do, do, good neighbours, do (she cried) 
 My wants with pitying eyes behold ; 
 
 A morsel spare me, or I die, 
 O'ercome with hunger and with cold. 
 
 " For once, some kindly comfort give, 
 The wint'ry blasts, hark ! how they roar ! 
 
 Short is my journey to the grave ! 
 Perhaps I'll trouble you no more." 
 
 " Aroint thee, witch ! (quoth Johnny Brown) 
 Now, by the mass ! that must not be ; 
 
 For had I ten times what I have, 
 I would not give a mite to thee." 
 
 Stung with this sharpness of reply, 
 
 In mutt' ring tone the caitiff swore ; 
 And pray'd his substance, kyth and kin, 
 
 That heav'n would never prosper more. 
 
 He heard her execrations dire, 
 
 They fill'd his inmost soul with dread ; 
 
 Next morning brought the doleful news, 
 The best milk cow he had was dead ! 
 
132 JOHNNY BROWN 
 
 Ere noon, his son, to market sent, 
 
 He heard by rogues had been beguil'd - 9 
 
 His wife, ere ev'ning, tuld him too, 
 Their eldest daughter was with child. 
 
 " Now, by my sooth, (says Johnny Brown) 
 The beldam bears me mickle spite; 
 
 But ere such mischief I'll endure, 
 I'll shoot the witch this very night." 
 
 The night was hush'd, the moon shone clear. 
 The air was keen as keen could be, 
 
 When Johnny Brown his firelock took, 
 And out with deadly wrath went he. 
 
 In ev'ry corner that he pass'd, 
 
 Around the hayrick and the well, 
 He look'd with curious eye, in hopes 
 
 To find poor hapless Granny Bell. 
 
 At length, between him and the light, 
 He thought he saw the wish'd for game ; 
 
 " Yes, yes ! she's there!" (quoth Johnny Brown) 
 So straightway took his vengeful aim ! 
 
 Off* went the piece, unerring true, 
 
 The bullet whistled thro' the air ; 
 With speed he ran to seize the prize, 
 
 But, lo ! he'd shot his best grey mare ! 
 
AND GRANNY BELL. 133 
 
 Thus foil'd for once, went Johnny Brown 
 Home to his house with burning gall; 
 
 But swore if morning 1 light were come, 
 To burn the witch, her house, and all. 
 
 The foul design so fill'd his mind, 
 That, e'en tho' fast asleep, he rose, 
 
 And snatch'd a firebrand from the hearth, 
 And to his fatal purpose goes. 
 
 His wife she miss'd him from her side, 
 She rose with haste the cause to learn ; 
 
 There spied she luckless Johnny Brown 
 About to fire his well-stock'd barn ! 
 
 She shriek'd right loud, as well she might, 
 The husband 'woke with this alarm; 
 
 But, in the moment of surprise, 
 
 Poor Johnny fell, and broke his arm ! 
 
 What mischiefs happen'd Johnny Brown, 
 
 In consequence of Grann) Bell ; 
 From first to last, to him and his, 
 
 I'm sure are more than I can tell. 
 
 " Now foul befal the hellish hag, 
 
 (Quoth Johnny Brown) she doth me twitch, 
 But, if there's justice in the land, 
 
 I will exterminate the witch." 
 
134 JOHNNY BROWN AND GRANNY BELL. 
 
 So said — next morning with the light 
 Vindictive Johnny Brown arose ; 
 
 And with his neighbours and his friends, 
 To seek the hapless beldam goes. 
 
 But disappointed was their rage, 
 No witch to torture they behold ! 
 
 For, on a lowly straw-made couch, 
 Lay Granny Bell, both stiff and cold! 
 
THE HARPER. 
 
 JL HERE came a harper o'er the lee, 
 Just as the hour was getting late ; 
 
 And he has tun'd his harp with glee, 
 And play'd at our Lord Baron's gate. 
 
 And he has struck each trembling string, 
 That sweetly echo'd thro' the hall ; 
 
 And he has made the mansion ring, 
 And pleas'd the lords and ladies all. 
 
 In sooth, he was a harper rare, 
 
 As ever touch'd the quiv'ring wire 5 
 
 Harmonious sweetness grac'd the air, 
 The song bespoke poetic fire. 
 
 " Come to my hall, (Lord Valens said) 
 Come to my hall and welcome be ; 
 
 Of all the lyrists that have play'd, 
 None ever surely equall'd thee ! 
 
 " I've heard the Cumbrian minstrel play, 
 I've heard the Caledonian chore ; 
 
 But such a sweet melodious lay 
 I swear I never heard before/' 
 
136 THE HARPER. 
 
 Into the hall the harper wends, 
 Amidst the fair and gallant train : 
 
 Where as he plays, his music mends, 
 And all are ravish'd with his strain. 
 
 " Now tell me, minstrel, if you will, 
 
 (Lord Valens said) where have you been, 
 
 To gain so competent a skill, 
 
 And what strange regions have you seen ? 
 
 " For your address informs me well 
 That you have been in foreign parts ; 
 
 And tho' in music you excel, 
 
 Yet have you studied other arts.' 1 ' 
 
 " Your courtesy, my Lord is such, 
 That all my frankness it demands ; 
 
 Good certes, I have travell'd much, 
 And been in many foreign lands. 
 
 " There's not a nation, great or small, 
 In which I have not something seen ; 
 
 Nor yet a court amongst them all, 
 In which X have not sometime been. 
 
 " Before the greatest kings on earth, 
 With lond applauses have I play 'd ; 
 
 For mightiest monarchs have made mirth. 
 And been by them profusely paid. 
 
THE HARPER. 137 
 
 " The Soldan of Damascus, he 
 
 On me this scimitar bestow'd, 
 Which I to you present as free, 
 
 For all this kindness you have show'd. 
 
 " Its qualities, my Lord, are rare, 
 
 That like it in the world is none ; 
 Whilst this you keep, and keep with car®, 
 
 You never shall be overthrown. 
 
 " Besides, with it you may with ease 
 
 Most strange appearances produce, 
 Or to advantage, or to please ; — 
 
 Experience best will show its use. 
 
 " And this, fair lady, is for you, 
 
 A mantle call'd — The Lease of Love; 
 
 With this past pleasure shall renew, 
 And age your beauty shall improve." 
 
 Lord Valens had a daughter fair, 
 
 And Adeliza was her name ; 
 Of beauty she had such a share, 
 
 That far and near was spread her fame. 
 
 Angelic sweetness flush'd her face, 
 Her eyes were sparkling, yet serene ; 
 
 And those, who mark'd her easy grace 
 Were wont to style her beauty's queen. 
 
J 38 THE HARPER. 
 
 To her a sparkling ring- he gave, 
 
 Saying- — "This, fair maid, is mete for thee, 
 Possessing this you still shall have 
 
 Increase of love and constancy." 
 
 "Now, by my troth, (Lord Valens cried) 
 
 Thy liberality is such, 
 That, setting courtesy aside, 
 
 1 would avow it were too much." 
 
 Now Lady Anastatia rose, 
 
 And round her hath the mantle thrown ; 
 Her face its virtues plainly shows 
 
 In graces not before its own. 
 
 Lord Valens he has ta'en likewise 
 The sword, and struck it on the ground, 
 
 When lo ! a tree is seen to rise 
 
 With blooming grapes enclust'ring round. 
 
 But Adeliza, lovely maid, 
 
 Has on her finger put the ring, 
 And doubtful to herself hath said — 
 
 " Let's see what wonder this will: bring W 
 
 But when the ring her finger press'd, 
 She felt herself quite chang'd, I trow ; 
 
 New passions seem'd to warm her breast, 
 She saw, she felt, she scarce knew how. 
 
THE HARPER. 139 
 
 For he, the harper, who appears 
 
 To all, save Adeliza fair, 
 Sore worn with labour and with years, 
 
 And harrow'd by the hand of care, — 
 
 To her appears in beauty's bjoom, 
 
 With youthful mein and comely face ;' 
 
 Nor one besides in all the room 
 
 Might match with him in manly grace. 
 
 A flame had caught the fair one's breast, 
 
 A flame she never felt before ; 
 Nor for a moment could she rest, 
 
 But as she gaz'd, she lov'd the more. 
 
 And to herself she silent said — 
 
 " How comely is the harper ! he 
 Of all the world I'd wish to wed — 
 
 The harper is the man for me." 
 
 The harper strikes again the strings, 
 His strains the passions well express'd : 
 
 Again the vaulted mansion rings, 
 And pleasure thrills in ev'ry breast. 
 
 But most transported with the song 
 
 Was lovely Adeliza ; shie 
 This chorus caroll'd all along, 
 
 ft The harper is the man for me!" 
 
140 THE HARPER. 
 
 At length arriv'd the midnight hour ; 
 
 Well pleas'd the company withdrew ; 
 Nor one in chamber or in bow'r 
 
 But slept that night right sound, I trow ; 
 
 Save Adeliza, lovely fair, 
 
 The harper he so fill'd her head ; 
 
 Of sleep she had but little share, 
 And silently she's left her bed. 
 
 And she's put on her kirtle green, 
 
 Unmindful what the folks might say ; 
 
 And thro' the dark has ventur'd clean, 
 To where the wakeful harper lay. 
 
 " Come to my bed, sweet lady fair, 
 (The merry minstrel whisp'ring cried) 
 
 Come to my bed, sweet lady fair, 
 For thou shalt be my bonny bride." 
 
 " Ah ! what is this that makes me start, 
 
 Or what is it that urges me ? 
 Thou hast bewitch' d my virgin heart, 
 
 And I must come, to bed to thee." 
 
 The harper took her to his arms, 
 
 Right amourously they pass'd the night, 
 
 In full possession of her charms, 
 Till fairly shone the morning light. 
 
THE HARPER. 141 
 
 Lord Valens rose by dawn of day, 
 
 And to his page aloud did call, 
 " Go, bring- the harper here straightway, 
 
 And let him join me in the hall. 
 
 " For I've a curious vision seen, 
 
 The which perhaps he may unfold — 
 
 I dreamt my daughter was a queen, 
 And habited in robes of gold." 
 
 The page at his Lord's bidding ran 
 With all the speed that well might be ; 
 
 But when he to the chamber wan, 
 Nor harp nor harper there met he. 
 
 They search'd the castle round and round, 
 They march' d the chambers thro' and thro' ; 
 
 But harper no where could be found, 
 Tho' none of his departure knew. 
 
 They call'd the porter from the gate — 
 When thus on oath did he declare ; 
 
 I've watch'd it soon, I've watch'd it late, 
 But man or mortal pass'd not there." 
 
 Then said Lord Valens hastily, 
 
 " Now to my daughter's chamber go, 
 
 Enquire of her if haply she 
 May something of the harper know." 
 
142 THE HARPER. 
 
 Then to the chamber quick went they, 
 And back as quickly to the hall, 
 
 And to Lord Valens told straightway, 
 His daughter she was gone and all. 
 
 " Now, by the rood, (Lord Valens cried) 
 Foul doings have been practised here ; 
 
 She's some vile necromancer's bride, 
 Or else some elfin wight's I fear. 
 
 " But, by the holy virgin dame ! 
 
 If I this harper meet with soon, 
 I'll teach the varlet other game, 
 
 And, for a season, change his tune.' 
 
 And he has ta'en the goodliest steed 
 That there was standing in the stall, 
 
 And he's adventur'd forth with speed, 
 In comely armour clad withal. 
 
 Fast o'er the mountains did he hie, 
 As fast o'er haught and valley scour ; 
 
 But house nor hall did he espy, 
 Till ev'ning shades began to lour. 
 
 When, at a distance, he survey'd 
 A lonely mansion o'er the lee, 
 
 " Whate'er be here, (Lord Valens saiu 1 ; 
 To-night here anust my lodging be.'' 
 
THE HARPER. 143 
 
 He spurr'd his courser e'er the moor, 
 And soon he reach'd the castle-gate ; 
 
 But long he thunder'd at the door, 
 Ere page or porter came to wait. 
 
 At length a surly servant came, 
 
 From whose foul looks and frowning face, 
 Lord Valens might a presage form 
 
 Both of the master and the place. 
 
 " What brings thee here, (he sternly cried) 
 Uncourteous knight, to knock so late ? 
 
 My Lord is arming him aside, 
 
 And means to give thee battle straight." 
 
 " I did not come (Lord Valens said) 
 
 With ill intent, much less to fight, 
 But only hop'd I might have made 
 
 A lodging here for one short night." 
 
 "'Tis like enough (the oaf replied) 
 
 That your request you may obtain, 
 And lodge here till you're satisfied, 
 
 Before I let you out again ; 
 
 k< For know the terms that we afford 
 To all that venture here like thee — 
 
 Is to do combat with my Lord, 
 
 Or yield them, and his prisoners be !'' 
 
144 THE HARPER. 
 
 rt Now, devil take thy Lord, say I, 
 And thee and all, thou saucy knave ! 
 
 If with your boasts your valour vie, 
 You, doubtless, both are very brave. 
 
 " Go, tell him not to make delay, 
 But hasten, as I wait the fight ; 
 
 For in his hall I mean to stay, 
 
 With or without his leave to-night." 
 
 " Now, by my sooth, (the porter said) 
 This menace suits thy station ill ; 
 
 Thou may'st, proud knight, perhaps be made 
 To stay all night against thy will. 
 
 " But if it chance to be thy lot 
 Here, maugre thy consent, to be, 
 
 In solitude thou pinest not, 
 For here is store of company. 
 
 " Full many a Lord of high renown, 
 And many a foolish-boast-ing knight, 
 
 Have very humbly here sat down, 
 As likely thou may'st do to-night." 
 
 " Now, God confound thee ! chattering elf, 
 Thy words at least bespeak thy will; 
 
 Thy master comes not forth himself : 
 Take thou this earnest of my skill. 
 
THE HARPER. 145 
 
 " At least, 'twill let thy master know 
 
 His menace is to me no dread." 
 So saying 1 , with a furious blow, 
 
 He from his shoulders smote his head ! 
 
 At length the castle-knight appear'd, 
 
 In armour harness'd cap-a-pee ; 
 His pond'rous lance he held uprear'd, 
 
 And gaily mounted, too, was he. 
 
 With threats and execrations loud, 
 The traitor marshalTd his advance; 
 
 And from afar, in gestures proud, 
 
 He boastful shook his threat'ning lance. 
 
 But when the porter he beheld 
 
 All lifeless in the postern lie, 
 Increasing rage his bosom fill'd, 
 
 And death and vengeance was his cry. 
 
 11 Full dearly shalt thou, stranger knight, 
 
 This cruel outrage soon repay ; 
 And, tho' thou dost contemn my might, 
 
 Shalt rue tbou ever came this way." 
 
 He took his seat, and conch'd his lance. 
 
 And ran his furious headlong course ; 
 
 Lord Valens saw his mad advance, 
 
 And, turning, mock'd his idle force. 
 U 
 
146 THE HAKPER, 
 
 But as enrag'd he past him sped, 
 This nimbly stooping to the place, 
 
 Snatch'd from the ground the porter's head, 
 And dash'd it in the braggart's face! 
 
 Provok'd beyond all common bounds,. 
 
 Fierce to the combat he returns ; 
 The welkin with his voice resounds, 
 
 His face with indignation burns. 
 
 Fierce was the shock, for such a pair 
 To neither would the other yield ; 
 
 Their shining lances glanc'd in air, 
 And. rudely shield encounter'd shield. 
 
 Lord Valens drew the blade so bright, 
 The very blade the harper gave, 
 
 To try its metal on the knight, 
 
 And,, sooth, it prov'd a gallant glaive. 
 
 For at one well-directed blow, 
 
 It cleft his glitt'ring casque in twain, 
 
 And passing onward deep below, 
 It trenches wide the traitors brain ! 
 
 Prone from his horse he lifeless fell— 
 
 " So fare all knaves! (Lord Valens cried) 
 
 This outside promises right well, 
 Let's see what's here to do beside/' 
 
THE HARPER. 147 
 
 Then to the castle he proceeds, 
 
 With all the haste that- he could hie ; 
 
 No let his further course impedes, 
 The menials in confusion fly. 
 
 Fast thro' the hall the Baron went, 
 
 To search the vaulted dungeons round ; 
 
 And there in chains and darkness pent, 
 Full fifty captive knights he found. 
 
 " Now shall you all right merry be 
 
 With me this night, (Lord Valens said) 
 
 I am your host : base Kenrick, he 
 Your former one, by me lies dead/' 
 
 Then were the knights well pleas'd to hear 
 These tidings, as in sooth they might, 
 
 For in the lonely dungeon drear 
 They had but been in rueful plight. 
 
 And they're assembled in the hall, 
 
 Where plenteous dainties they have found ; 
 
 And ev'ry thought of former thrall 
 Is in the cheering goblet drown'd. 
 
 But soon as daylight streak'd the east. 
 
 The Baron he, without repose, 
 Departed, leaving all the rest, 
 
 Each one to take the road he chose. 
 
148 THE HARPER. 
 
 And as on yesterday, with haste 
 O'er fen and forest fast rode he, 
 
 To-day thro' wilderness and waste 
 He swifter speeds, if such may be. 
 
 The sun had reach'd its noon-tide stage, 
 Ere man or mansion had he spied ; 
 
 For such was then his onward rage, 
 He scarcely ever look'd aside. 
 
 But, as he for a moment stood 
 To rest his jaded steed withal, 
 
 Within the curtain of a wood, 
 He there beheld a princely hall. 
 
 Too tir'd for ceremony, he 
 
 Resolv'd to wait not mickle grace ; 
 
 But, spurring 1 forward o'er the lee, 
 He in a trice was at the place. 
 
 And as he drew towards the dome, 
 The sound of mirth assail'd his ears: 
 
 Which from the mansion seem'd to come — 
 Quoth he — \* This prelude rather cheers. 
 
 " Well am I sure that where there's mirth, 
 There cannot much ill nature be ; 
 
 Spleen gives to unpoliteness birth, 
 And cheerfulness to courtesy." 
 
THE HARPER. 149 
 
 And he has reach'd the castle-gate, 
 
 And loudly at the ring rang he ; 
 But readier here were they to wait, 
 
 For servants there came two or three, 
 
 " Now welcome art thou to our hall, 
 
 Most courteous stranger knight, (said they) 
 
 Most welcome, (answer'd one and all) 
 And long and pleasant be your stay. 
 
 " Right glad will be my Lord, I trow, 
 
 To entertain you with good cheer ; 
 And glad my Lady be also, 
 
 When she shall know that you are here." 
 
 ** And fair and merry may you be, 
 
 (Lord Valens said) and fair betide, 
 For this you're welcome frank and free, 
 
 Your courteous master and his bride." 
 
 Now they have ta'en the Baron's steed, 
 
 And led it to a goodly stall ; 
 And they've Lord Valens led with speed, 
 
 Politely to the mirthful hall. 
 
 But as he enter'd, more and more 
 
 His wonder was awoke, I ween,, 
 For he in all his life before 
 
 So fair a party ne'er had seen. 
 
150 THE HARPER. 
 
 The tables groan-d with piles of food, 
 Whereon might kings and princes dine, 
 
 And flowing full the vases stood, 
 
 With rarest and with costliest wine ! 
 
 The company who sat around, 
 
 Were rich in princely vestments dress' d ; 
 And from each chamber music's sound 
 
 Gave to the banquet double zest. 
 
 " Here, take your place, sir stranger knight, 
 And share right freely in our cheer ; 
 
 Lord Proteus should have been by right, 
 But he will presently be here. 
 
 " But 'tis not needful we delay 
 Until my Lord's return ; at least, 
 
 We are his commoners each day, 
 
 And can without him share the feast.' 
 
 So said— the company fell on, 
 
 Withont long waiting for the grace ; 
 
 The hungry Baron, too, anon, 
 
 Seem'd with the foremost to keep pace. 
 
 And now the banquet being o'er, 
 
 The cheering minstrels strike the strings, 
 
 The hall resounds with laughter's roar, 
 And music thro' the mansion rings, 
 
THE HARPER. 151 
 
 But how, amid the tuneful choir, 
 
 Was he surpris'd, the Baron bold, 
 With those that struck the trembling' lyre, 
 
 His quondam harper to behold ! 
 
 All seated on a gorgeous throne, 
 
 In royal dignity he sate ; 
 In splendour he might yield to none, 
 
 That ever bore the badge of state. 
 
 Fair Adeliza by his side 
 
 Sat on another throne as fair ; 
 Array'd in royalty's fair pride, 
 
 And beauty, more than mortal's share. 
 
 "Now, by my troth, (Lord Valens said) 
 
 Base harper, whatsoe'er thou be, 
 Thou hast foul incantations play'd, 
 
 Both on my daughter and on me. 
 
 " But now, foul traitor ! to thy woe, 
 This rape nngen'rous shalt thou pay ; 
 
 And curse the moment thou didst know 
 My house, or stole my child away." 
 
 Then, in a rage, Lord Valens rose, 
 And furious rush'd across the floor; 
 
 Towards the orchestra he goes, 
 But cursing, as he went, full sore. 
 
152 THE HARPER. 
 
 Quick from its sheath his trusty blade 
 With hasty hand in wrath drew he ; 
 
 But from his grasp it was convey'd, 
 But how or where he could not see. 
 
 And by his side a lady stood, 
 
 All comely, affable and gay ; 
 Who press'd his hand, and begg'd he would 
 
 Politely dance with her that day. 
 
 " Indeed, fair dame, (the Baron said) 
 
 I am not in a dancing mood ; 
 But when such beauty comes in aid, 
 
 The suit can be but ill withstood." 
 
 Then up his mirth inspiring lyre 
 In haste the merry minstrel drew; 
 
 Its strains awoke the slumb'ring choir, 
 And to the dance Lord Valens flew. 
 
 And gaily hopp'd he round the hall, 
 And frisk'd and fidgets on the floor, 
 
 To the amusement of them all, 
 
 Who laugh'd till all their sides were sore. 
 
 And still the lovely lady gay, 
 In graceful air the measure led j 
 
 And still Lord Valens danc'd away, 
 And blither still the harper playd, 
 
THE HARPER. Ifl3 
 
 ° For pity, harper, hold thy hand, 
 
 Urg'd he, for I am out of breath ; 
 Do let me for a moment stand, 
 
 Or I shall dance myself to death." 
 
 Then down his harp the lyrist laid, 
 
 A winsome wight I wot was he, 
 And to the weary wanton said, 
 
 " This likes you more than chivalry. 
 
 " You see, Lord Valens, I have pow'r 
 
 To treat you in what wise I will ; 
 But be assur'd that from this hour 
 
 I never more will use you ill. 
 
 " Your daughter, Baron, is my bride, 
 
 Right worthy of her rank, I ween ; 
 And understand, my Lord, beside, 
 
 That she is now an elfin queen ! 
 
 " There, take, Lord Valens, take the sword - t 
 'T may serve you on some future day ; 
 
 This, haply, succour may afford, 
 When I, perhaps, am far away. 
 
 " But now and then depend that we 
 
 Will pay a visit to your ball ; 
 And now may all prosperity 
 
 Attend you till our casual call." 
 
154 THE HARPER. 
 
 " Indeed, my son, (the Baron said) 
 
 If so it be, it must be so; 
 And sorely have I been afraid, 
 
 To think what you resolv'd to do. 
 
 " And since my daughter is your wife, 
 Take my consent now frank and free ; 
 
 And, thro' the residue of life, 
 
 In God's name may you happy be !" 
 
 Scarce had that word the Baron spoke, 
 When, in an instant, all was gone ! 
 
 The hall, the banquet, and the folk 
 Were vanish'd, and he left alone ! 
 
 But, what surpris'd him yet still more 
 Than all the rest, was now to see, 
 
 Tho' he two days had rode full sore, 
 Close by his own park-wall was he ! 
 
THE 
 
 FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 
 
 J3IR Barnaby he was as courteous a knight 
 
 As ever liv'd north of the Trent; 
 For still he was call'd by the ladies so bright, 
 
 Sir Courteous, wherever he went. 
 King Henry the Eighth, into gay Cumberland, 
 
 An excursion once made for his sport; 
 With Lords and with Ladies, a fair sightly band. 
 
 The fairest perhaps in the court. 
 Awhile at Sir Barnaby's hall with delight 
 
 The King with his courtiers made stay ; 
 Where dancing and music beguil'd ev'ry night, 
 
 And the joys of the chase ev'ry day. 
 It chanc'd that one night to partake of the ball, 
 
 A female incognita came ; 
 But nobody there seem'd to know her at all, 
 
 Or could guess at her rank or her name. 
 The King danc'd the damsel around and around, 
 
 And press'd his addresses full sore ; 
 But when all his gallantries useless were found, 
 
 He vow'd he would mind her no more. 
 
156 THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 
 
 " Now there is, Sir Barnaby ( whisper' d the King) 
 
 A subject to practise your skill ; 
 Perhaps to some terms the unknown you may bring, 
 
 At least you may try if you will." 
 Away to the fair one Sir Barnaby sped, 
 
 Expectant of better success ; 
 Determin'd to use all the wits in his head, 
 
 And practise his utmost address. 
 With kindness his warmest advances she met, 
 
 Her courtesy equail'd his own ; 
 In gallantry fairly she kept him in debt, 
 
 For his spirits seem'd utterly gone. 
 "I'm thinking, fair Lady, (Sir Barnaby said, 
 
 As they wanton'd in amorous play) 
 If haply I had such a lady in bed, 
 
 She should not come a damsel away." 
 " Indeed ! (said the Lady, with smiling reply) 
 
 You would make some poor virgin afraid ; 
 But if, for a proof, she should venture to try, 
 
 Would you just be as good as you said ?" 
 " Now, by the Lord Harry, (Sir Barnaby cried) 
 
 If I were not as good as I've said, 
 I'd take the first woman I met for my bride, 
 
 So long as she has but a head." 
 <4 Your ofter is knightly, (the Lady replied) 
 
 But probation determines the whole ; 
 Assertion has oft by the proof been belied, 
 
 And the best have come short of the goal." 
 
THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 1.57 
 
 The dancing continued, the goblet went round, 
 
 Good humour pervaded the hall ; 
 Each bosom was cheer'd with sweet melody's sound, 
 
 The king and his merry men all. 
 At length it grew late, and the parties withdrew 
 
 Each one in their own proper way ; 
 Sir Barnaby he all impatiently flew 
 
 To attend on the lady so gay. 
 Towards her bedchamber so soft he did creep, 
 
 And so softly to bed went the knight ; 
 But he scarcely was in, till he fell fast asleep. 
 
 And so loudly he snor'd all the night. 
 Sir Barnaby soon in the morning awoke, 
 
 And look'd — but his Lady was fled! 
 He mutter'd and fretted, but ne'er a word spoke, 
 
 And in anger he leap'd out of bed. 
 Quite frantic he star'd and he stampt round the room, 
 
 And he got in a terrible rage ; 
 Like Stentor he call'd on young Gilbert his groom, 
 
 And as loudly he call'd on his page : 
 " O Gilbert, O Gilbert, why didst thou not wake, 
 
 Why didst thou not call me, I say ! 
 That I might have rose, for the fair Lady's sake, 
 
 Ere she'd gone thus unguerdon'd away. 
 " Full loudly, my Lord, twice or thrice did I call, 
 
 To wake you ; (re-answer'd the groom) 
 But in vain did I hoot, and in vain did I bawl, 
 
 When the Lady went out of the room." 
 
158 THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 
 
 " And thou, little page, why didst thou not awake ? 
 
 Or didst thou keep dozing till day ?" 
 " T call'd you, my Lord, and I gave you a shake, 
 
 When the Lady was going away." 
 The Ring came up stairs, and said to the knight, 
 
 *' What has rais'd all this clamour, I pray ?'' 
 " My liege, I have slept with the Lady all night, 
 
 And she's now gone a maiden away !" 
 " Ungallant, ungallant ! (the monarch replied) 
 
 Default is as bad as a crime ; 
 But since 'twill at present no beter betide, 
 
 You must play better cards the next time." 
 " But, Sire, when my bargain you shall understand, 
 
 You'll say that full hard is my case ; 
 I foolishly slipp'd all the trumps from my hand, 
 
 And my hazard is not worth an ace : 
 For, Sir, when the bargain with her I first set, 
 
 It was, if she rose up a maid, 
 I'd wed the first female that ever I met, 
 
 So be that she had but a head." 
 "I cannot absolve thee, (King Harry then said) 
 
 The fault must thy own be confess' d ; 
 And as thou hast let her away thus a maid, 
 
 Of a bad bargain e'en make the best." 
 The King and his company went on the morn 
 
 To hunt on the forest so green ; 
 The hunters loud hallo, the hounds and the horn, 
 
 Made a right merry chorus I ween. 
 
THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 159 
 
 The morning was charming", serene was the sky, 
 
 The birds on the boughs sweetly sang; 
 The valiies, as if they partook of the joy, 
 
 With answering choruses rang. 
 Two hares from the covert at once took a start, 
 
 But soon sought the shelter again ; 
 When just at that instant a fair bounding hart 
 
 Full swiftly Hew over the plain. 
 " A fair happy presage, (exclaim'd the gay King) 
 
 In such sports we but seldom excel ; 
 If better from good thus progressively spring, 
 
 You, Sir Barnaby, yet may do well." 
 " Pray whose is that chariot, (Sir Barnaby said 
 
 To a page as he posted along) 
 And who is the person within it convey 'd, 
 
 And to whom do these servants belong?" 
 " Good sir, (said a page) your enquiries forbear, 
 
 It belongs to a right wealthy dame ; 
 No more we're allow'd, worthy knight, to declare, 
 
 Then seek not to find out her name." 
 " I must, and I will, (then Sir Barnaby cried) 
 
 Then tell me the whole that you know ; 
 I've sworn by my knighthood she shall be my bride, 
 
 King Harry has witness'd my vow." 
 " In sooth, (quoth the servant) good tidings you 
 speak, 
 
 You spare us much sorrow and strife ; 
 My lady was just setting forward to seek 
 
 A fair knight that would make her hi» wife." 
 
160 THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 
 
 " 'Tis well, (said the King) you are happily met, 
 
 'Twere pity that soon you should part ; 
 To me, good Sir Earnaby, you stand in debt, 
 
 For raising you such a sweetheart." 
 Then up rode the King to the side of the coach, 
 
 The servants saluted him round ; 
 For each recollected him on his approach, 
 
 And they bow'd in obeisance profound. 
 But when brave Sir Barnaby came to behold 
 
 What sort of a bargain he'd got, 
 His head it grew giddy, his blood it ran cold, 
 
 And bitterly curs'd he his lot. 
 Her person was comely and fair to behold, 
 
 Her garments were costly and fine ; 
 Her ornaments glisten'd with rubies and gold, 
 
 But her head was the head of a swine ! 
 " Now woe to thy promise, (said Harry the Eighth) 
 
 Were I thee, I should want to be dead ; 
 J^or if thou refuse her in marriage, thy fate 
 
 Is next morning to loose thine own head !" 
 " No, no, (said Sir Barnaby) rather than life, 
 
 And ail my estates throw away, 
 I'll wed her, and bed her, and make her my wife ; 
 
 I can die, if I please, the next day." 
 1 hen off went Sir Barnaby, courtiers, and all, 
 
 Along with this Lady so fair ; 
 Until they reach'd a magnificent hall, 
 
 With which there were few could compare. 
 
THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 161 
 
 Of houses and lands she had got a great store, 
 
 Her furniture was of the best; 
 She had full forty servants to tend her, or more, 
 
 And all were most sumptuously dress'd. 
 Each day, in a trough made of fair burnish'd 
 gold, 
 
 The Lady on dainties was fed ; 
 Each day in a chariot most stately she roll'd, 
 
 Slept at night in a fine velvet bed ! 
 The nuptials were solemniz'd on the next day, 
 
 Rare justings and tourneys were there ; 
 And numbers of Lords and of Ladies so gay, 
 
 To attend at this wedding so rare. 
 King Henry the head of the table he grac'd, 
 
 The Lady was on his right hand, 
 And close by his side was Sir Barnaby plac'd, 
 
 And around them a fair jolly band. 
 The music it play'd, and the goblet went round, 
 
 The whole were right merry I ween ; 
 For never before, in all Christendom's ground, 
 
 Such a wedding, till now had been seen. 
 The night it grew late, and the company broke, 
 
 Each one to his chamber was led ; 
 Sir Barnaby lastly, to finish the joke, 
 
 Led his fair [grumbling consort to bed ! 
 And far on the couch, without one kind embrace, 
 
 He laid, her, her head to the wall; , 
 And close in the curtain he wrapp'd his own face, 
 
 Resolv'd not to touch her at all. 
 
 Y 
 
162 TfaCB FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 
 
 All night on his pillow he toss'd and he moan'd, 
 
 But sleep on his eye-lids ne'er press'd ; 
 Nor once to the bride e'er the live-long night turn'd, 
 
 Bat wish'd her eternal good rest ! 
 As soon as the goddess of morning arose, 
 
 Sir Barnaby rose from his bed : 
 In hasty confusion he put on his clothes, 
 
 And forth from the chamber he sped. 
 "0 whither thus haste you, good sir, (said the bride) 
 
 whither thus early ? (she said) 
 Twice all night with a damsel you've lain by your 
 side, 
 
 And each morning have left her a maid !" 
 Sir Barnaby turn'd him around with' surprise, 
 
 For she ne'er yet had spoken before ; 
 Ahd to any question, her constant replies 
 
 Were only a" humph, and no more ! 
 But more was his wonder on viewing the bride, 
 
 Whom he left in disgust as I ween, 
 When, lo! a most beautiful damsel he sj)ied, 
 
 Where his grunter-fac'd lady had been. 
 " If 5>ou I've neglected, (Sir Barnaby said) 
 
 'Twas because that my senses were stole, 
 But certes you shan't be much longer a maid,— 
 
 The third night shall pay for the whole. 
 "But say, by the virgin, fair lady, (said he) 
 
 Now what all those matters may mean ; 
 Or hbw may this strange metamorphosis be ? 
 
 Fair dame, 'tis most wond'rous, I ween. 
 
THE FRIGHTFUL BEAUTY. 163 
 
 " My step-mother was a mischievous old witch, 
 
 Who in cunning all others excell'd ; 
 Who, knowing full well I should one day be rich, 
 
 Transform'd me, as you have beheld, 
 My own proper form, one short day in the year, 
 
 She had left me the pow'r to assume ; 
 A monster the rest I was doom'd to appear, 
 
 Tho' I now am but just in my bloom. 
 All cruelly sentenc'd in this shocking plight, 
 
 To wear out the whole of my life ; 
 But the spell was to cease if I met with a knight 
 
 That would take me and make me his wife." 
 King Harry the Eighth, with his gay gallant band, 
 
 Were assembled below in the hall ; 
 Sir Barnaby went with his bride in his hand, 
 
 And presented her there to them all. 
 And truly Sir Barnaby there he rehears'd 
 
 The matter, just as it had pass'd ; 
 " My soul ! (said the King) if you blunder'd at 
 first, 
 
 You have made a good market at last.' 1 
 
ALLEN AND ELLEN. 
 
 JC AIR Ellen she came to the Esk river side, 
 She wanted to pass, but no passage could view ; 
 
 The water was deep, and the water was wide, 
 And much tho' she wanted, she durst not wade 
 thro'. 
 
 Fair Ellen she look'd for the boatman full sore, 
 She look'd all around, but no boatman could 
 see j 
 
 " Is nobody coming to carry me o'er, 
 
 Before either drown'd or benighted I be ?" 
 
 At length looking wistfully round she espied 
 A little old man with his boat by the shore ; 
 
 "O little old ferryman, (fair Ellen cried) 
 O little old man, will you carry me o'er ?" 
 
 " O where wouldst thou ferry to, Lady, so sweet, 
 
 where wouldst thou ferry to, tell me, I pray ? 
 The water is wide, and the water is deep ; 
 
 1 cannot cross over so late in the day." 
 
ALLEN AND ELLEN. 163 
 
 i( Why will you not ferry me over the stream, 
 Why will you not ferry me, little old man ? 
 
 I'll guerdon you double when danger's extreme ; 
 Then do, good old ferryman, do if you can." 
 
 u O where wouldst thou ferry to Lady so sweet, 
 
 where wouldst thou ferry to, tell me, 1 pray? 
 The water is wide and the water is deep; 
 
 1 cannot cross over so late in the day." 
 
 " Then I will go leave thee, (fair Ellen she said) 
 No more will I ask thee, thou stingy old man ; 
 
 The poor little ferryman, down at Green Bed, 
 I know he will carry me o'er if he can." 
 
 " where wouldst thou ferry to, Lady so sweet, 
 
 where wouldst thou ferry to, tell me, I pray? 
 The water is wide, and the water is deep, 
 
 1 would not advise you to cross it to-day." 
 
 " yes, I must cross it to-night if I can, 
 The reasons are urgent that press upon me ; 
 
 Then ferry me over, thou little old man, 
 
 And treble thy guerdon, believe me, shall be." 
 
 41 But tell me, fair Lady, what causes thy haste, 
 The day is far spent, and the night coming on ; 
 
 Thy reasons are urgent, I doubt not the least, 
 But speak them, fair Lady, and I will be gone/' 
 
166 ALLEN AND ELLEN. 
 
 Fair Ellen she blush'd like the fair summer rose, 
 'Twas bashful confusion that erimson'd her 
 cheek ; 
 
 The reason she was not afraid to disclose, 
 But modesty solely forbade her to speak. 
 
 " Excuse virgin fondness, (the damsel replied) 
 
 Tho' you'll blame my reasons, they're weighty 
 with me; 
 
 Young Allen he promis'd to make me his bride ; 
 
 To-morrow, to-morrow our wedding should be, 
 
 " He faithfully promis'd to meet me to-day, 
 I know him too well to dispute what he said ; 
 
 But why he his coming so long should delay ? 
 O boatman, boatman, I'm sadly afraid ! 
 
 " The river is deep, and the river is wide, 
 The fresh water furiously comes from above; 
 
 The sands they are bad, and full high runs the tide, 
 And much do I fear for the fate of my love." 
 
 " O Ellen, Ellen, (the ferryman cried) 
 Thy Allen now sleeps in a watery bed ! 
 
 He never, no never shall make thee his bride — 
 The cold waves of Sol way run over his head ! 
 
 " All faithful to thee, he set out from his home ; 
 
 He came to the Esk, it was wide, it was deep ; 
 He ventur'd — he there found a wat'ry tomb : 
 
 In Solway's foul sands doth thv lover now sleep ! 
 
ALLEN AND ELLEN. 167 
 
 Fair Ellen she heard the old ferryman ? s tale ; 
 
 Fair Ellen she heard, but she made no reply ; 
 Her eyes they grew languid, her face it grew pale, 
 
 Arid ever and ever she heav'd the deep sigh. 
 
 She wistfully look'd where the boatman had stood, 
 She wistfully look'd, but the boatman was gone! 
 
 Before her she heard and beheld the fierce flood, 
 But she on its margin was standing alone. 
 
 All stupidly speechless she homeward return'd ; 
 
 She raj'd not, she spoke not, her grief was ex- 
 treme ; 
 Convuls'd was her face, but in silence she mourn'd, 
 
 As sadly she went by the side of the stream. 
 
 By fever and phrenzy throughout the next day, 
 The poor helpless Ellen was kept to her bed ; 
 
 And, sighiug full sore, she would frequently say, 
 " The cold waves of Solway run over his head! 
 
 " Thy Allen, all faithful, set out from his home, 
 He came to the Esk, it was wide, it was deep, 
 
 He ventur'd — he there found a wat'ry tomb — 
 In Solway's foul sands doth thy lover now sleep! 
 
 " Ah! curse on thy waters, thou proud running river, 
 Ah ! curse on thy fountains and streams as they 
 flow ; 
 
 Those love had united thus ruthless to sever, 
 He'sdrown'd in thy waters, I'm drown'd in my Woe. 
 
168 ALLEN AND ELLEN. 
 
 " 'Twas cruel in thee, thou black Esk, to detain 
 My Allen, my love, my husband, my life ! 
 
 But I'll have him from thee, foul river again ; 
 I must, I have promis'd I will be his wife ! 
 
 " Tho' Solway's cold waters run over his head, 
 What tho* my love lie in the midst of thy clay, 
 
 Tho' in thy foul sands be my poor Allen's bed, 
 Yet will I be with him, and with him I'll stay." 
 
 The fever, tho' strong, yet retir'd by degrees, 
 
 But her senses were gone, they return'd not 
 again ; 
 
 Her heart by recov'ry recover'd no ease, 
 
 And perfectly turn'd was the poor Ellen's brain. 
 
 Now oft would she rove by the deep river side ; 
 
 Her sorrow was silent, none heard her complain, 
 Unless when saluting the wind or the tide, 
 
 And then she would call on her Allen in vain. 
 
 Whene'er the foul gull or the cormorant rose, 
 " Ah! yonder's my lover, (poor Ellen would cry) 
 
 I'll follow my Allen wherever he goes ; 
 
 Then stretch out her arms in an effort to fly. 
 
 Along the smooth sands in distraction she'd run, 
 
 Crying — " Stop, cruel lover, nor leave me alone? 
 
 Why dost thou poor Ellen thus pitiless shun ?" 
 
 When tir'd, she would weep when the object 
 was gone. 
 
ALLEN AND ELLEN. 169 
 
 " Ah ! how couldst thou leave me, thus cruelly 
 leave me ? 
 Abandon thy Ellen to wailing and woe ! 
 I never once thought that the youth would de- 
 ceive me, 
 I never deceiv'd thee; ah! no, my love, no! 
 
 " O'er earth and o'er ocean impatient I'll fly, 
 On pinions full swiftly his course I'll pursue ; 
 
 I know that my Allen has sought yonder sky, 
 The spirit of Ellen will wander there too.'* 
 
 The waters of Eden were heavy and deep, 
 
 The winds they were howling, and dark was 
 the day, 
 
 When Ellen, poor Ellen, stood high on the steep, 
 And ardently gaz'd on the gale-driven spray. 
 
 The foul hooting sea-gull arose from the wave, 
 1 he maniac beheld it and shriek'd out amain — 
 
 "0 Allen, O Allen, thy Ellen now save! 
 And cruelly do not desert me again!" 
 
 The damsel observ'd not the place where she 
 stood, 
 Her mind had, alas! other objects in view ; 
 The precipice steep, and the black rolling flood, 
 The slightest attention from Ellen ne'er drew. 
 
 z 
 
 
170 
 
 ALLEN AND ELLEN. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I am coming ! (exclaim'd the fond 
 maid) 
 
 Allen, why thus from thy love dost thou fly ? 
 Yet, yet will I follow thee swiftly (she said) 
 
 On pinions as fleet, to yon fair shining sky." 
 
 So said — she sprang forward ; but, ah ! the deep 
 river 
 
 Receiv'd her! the struggle of life was soon o'er; 
 A moment she scream'd, then was silent for ever, 
 
 And poor hapless Ellen was heard of no more! 
 
THE 
 
 MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 XXATIK ! the hoarse loud whirlwind howlitij 
 See the light'ning's dazzling glare ! 
 
 Hear the deaf ning thunders rolling 
 Thro' the agitated air. 
 
 See, where mighty forests bending, 
 With their heads salute the ground, 
 
 Whilst their tortur'd branches rending, 
 O'er the waste are scatter' d round. 
 
 Hear yon cliff, by force stupendous, 
 Rifted from the mountain's brow ; 
 
 Tumbling down, with crash tremendous, 
 To the hideous gulph below! 
 
 There the water-sprite loud yelling, 
 Mingles with the bellowing gale ; 
 
 And wild Nature's chorus swelling, 
 Echoes loudly thro' the dale. 
 
 
172 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 At a distance, hear old Ocean 
 
 Furious dash th' obstructing shore ; 
 
 And, amidst the wild commotion, 
 Raise a supersounding roar. 
 
 " Roar on, ye thunders! whirlwinds, louder howl! 
 
 Your's is the music that best suits my soul ! 
 
 Not the vex'd ocean, nor the tortur'd wind 
 
 Endure a conflict equal to my mind ! 
 
 Your conflicts sometimes cease — that in my breast 
 
 For ever rages, never finding' rest ! 
 
 Oh ! I am sick ! and my drain'ci heart denies 
 
 Its kindly tears to cool my scorching eyes! 
 
 A fever fires my brain ; congeals my blood ! — 
 While I am more than mad with wild despair ! 
 And, as beneath 1 hear the rushing flood, 
 I'm half resolv'd to calm the conflict there: 
 But, as if to perpetuate my care, 
 The cruel fates my purposes withstood; 
 I'm held by force in being, still to bear 
 Misfortune's scourge, and o'er those evils brood, 
 Which death alone can quiet and conclude ! 
 
 I climb o'er the mountains ! I plunge thro' the dale ! 
 I am drench'd by the show'r — and am dried by 
 
 the gale j 
 The rude blasts of winter unheeded I bear; 
 Keen hunger sustain, yet these cause not my care! 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 173 
 
 The anguish, deep-rooted, is fix'd in my heart, 
 And till that shall burst, I must suffer the smart.' ' 
 
 " Who would believe that such excessive woe 
 Would not have done the business long ago : 
 But surely mine of sorrows are the worst, 
 They petrify the heart that they should burst! 
 And from the consequences of excess, 
 Instead or of short' ning, lengthen my distress!" 
 
 But see, the tempest 'gins to cease, 
 The battling elements at peace 
 Are hush'd into a calm serene, 
 And sweetly smiles the rural scene. 
 The soaring lark on quiv'ring wings, 
 To heav'n her raptur'd carol sings, 
 The azure vault, cerulian clear, 
 Bids nature's languid offspring cheer, 
 The gladd'ning summons pleas'd and gay, 
 Creation hastens to obey. 
 The hart his covert now forsakes, 
 Despising bow'rs and shelt'ring brakes : 
 And o'er the mountain bounds elate, 
 On daisied lawns to join his mate ; 
 The sounding bittern quits the glen, 
 The snipe forsakes the marshy fen ; 
 And all the children of the air 
 The common invitation share ; 
 'Tis love the rising joy excites, 
 'Tis love that all the throng invites. 
 
174 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 " Then may not I the cheerful concourse join? 
 
 Shall love invite, and Oscar not obey ? 
 Where is the -passion that can equal mine ; 
 
 Which time nor absence can allay ; 
 
 But as it lives, grows stronger with each day !" 
 
 Down the mountain's sunny side 
 Swift I sweep, to bring* my bride; 
 Saunt'ring in the verdant vale, 
 Listening to the cuckoo's tale. 
 In the scented myrtle grove, 
 Sweetly sits my pensive love : 
 
 Whilst around their scents exhaling 
 Sweet the rose and woodbine blow, 
 
 With their od'rous breath regaling 
 Julia, as she sits below. 
 
 Julia ' blooming-, beauteous maid ! 
 Leave awhile the bow'ry shade ; 
 Leave awhile thy soft recess, 
 And thy longing lover bless : 
 Leave awhile thy peaceful dreams, 
 Myrtle-shades, and murm'ring streams; 
 And with fond impatience haste, 
 All the joys of love to taste ! 
 
 With what pleasure I'll behold thee, 
 With what rapture I'll enfold thee. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. I7i 
 
 Haste then, Julia, come away, 
 This is Hymen's holiday : 
 
 Pleasure ev'ry sense delighting; 
 Haste then, Julia, come away, 
 
 For the season's most inviting. 
 
 On the blue- rob' d sun-gilt mountain 
 
 Will I make thy heathy bed ; 
 By the side of yonder fountain, 
 
 There our banquet shall be spread. 
 
 Strains of love, in softest numbers, 
 
 On my dulcet pipes I'll play ; 
 To provoke refreshing slumbers, 
 
 As I guard thee thro' the day. 
 
 But see, where all- blooming my Julia comes, 
 
 Her smiles are the op'ning of spring ; 
 Her presence, all-lovely, my bosom re-cheers, 
 Fond transports revive, and dispell'd are my fears, 
 'Tis Julia alone could such extacy bring. 
 
 Then come, my dear Julia, great nature's fair 
 
 blossom ; 
 Come, come, and recline thy dear head in my 
 
 bosom. 
 The fond throbbing heart how with rapture 'tis 
 
 beating, 
 To think on the pleasures of this happy meeting! 
 
176 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 What makes thee linger thus, most lovely maid? 
 Randolph is dead ! thou needst not be afraid ; 
 Ah me ! she shrieks ! — the villain there behold, 
 With rude embrace my timid wife enfold ! 
 " Unhand her, monster ! or, by yonder heav'n ! 
 Thoa'rt in an instant to damnation driv'n ! 
 'Twere better thou hadst never seen the light, 
 Than with this outrage to provoke my sight. 
 Beast ! dost thou mock my anger ? then, come on ! 
 O God ! O God ! what has my fury done ? 
 She bleeds ! she falls ! — perdition seize thy soul ! 
 Death is too little for a crime so foul. 
 
 My rapier's point shall tap thy lustful blood, 
 
 To the extinction of the very heat 
 
 Which has inflam'd thee to this dev'lish deed. 
 
 Oh ! I will launch thy soul before 't has time 
 
 To scream for mercy, or to sue for pardon, 
 
 And hurl it headlong to infernal hell ! 
 
 There, there ! begone to everlasting death ! 
 
 And may thy soul as little mercy find, 
 
 Where I transmit thee, as I've shewn thee here ! — 
 
 But, oh ! my Julia ! why so sadly mute ? 
 
 The ruffian now is hush'd — and so art thou! — 
 
 Oh ! I am madly mad, past all relief, 
 With indignation, love, and bursting grief : 
 Not all the tortures hell to guilt can deal, 
 Can parallel the torments that I feel ! 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 177 
 
 my poor Julia ! my lovely bride ! 
 So soon, so satlly soon, thus torn away, 
 Would, would to heav'n that I myself had died! 
 Ere I had seen this lamentable day. 
 
 O Julia, thy spirit that hovers around me, 
 
 Will pardon my rashness, and pity my grief, 
 Will pity those feelings that mortally wound me, 
 
 For whose keen endurance time brings no relief. 
 I'm wretched, I'm mad, I'm more than distracted, 
 To think on the sad cruel work I have acted, 
 Yet that which is over can ne'er be retracted, 
 Tho' mine with misfortunes may stand as the 
 chief. 
 
 Ye thunders that roll thro' the sky, 
 
 Ye tempests that furiously blow, 
 Now bellow your loudest and try 
 
 To make me forget all my woe. 
 
 Let earthquakes and deluges wage 
 Their warfare on nature each hour, 
 
 They could not exhibit my rage, 
 Were I but possess'd of their pow'r. 
 
 The tempest that ocean deforms, 
 The whirlwinds that ruffle the air, 
 
 Are not to compare with the storms 
 This bosom is destin'd to bear. 
 A 2 
 
178 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 But ah, alas ! where are my senses fled ? 
 I've lost my wife, my hapless Julia's dead ! 
 Blow, blow, ye winds ! ye rifting tempests howl ! 
 In show'rs let heav'n's red thunderbolts be hurl'd! 
 Wild from their orbs let the planets roll, 
 And discompose the fabric of the world ! 
 Tear up old ocean till the yellow sand 
 Work into foam, and on the surface stand! 
 
 But, hark ! what voice is that I hear, 
 That midst the tumult strikes mine ear ? 
 'Tis my Julia, lovely maid! 
 'Tis my Julia's mournful shade. 
 Touch'd in death with deep concern, 
 Hark ! she bids me cease to mourn. 
 Gentle spirit, peace !-^refrain — 
 Oscar shall be sooth'd again. 
 
 Yes, passion's storm is o'er ! the furious blast 
 Subsides into a stupid calm at last. 
 Ah ! gentle stranger, in thy wond'ring eyes, 
 I read at once thy pity and surprise : 
 Sit down, and hear the story of my woes, 
 Communication some relief bestows; 
 And t-his- recital may, perhaps, in part, 
 Abate the surflux of my delug'd heart. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 179 
 
 THE MANIACS TALE. 
 
 NEAR where yon shady coppice spreads, 
 
 Deserted and forlorn, 
 The neat but humble cottage stands, 
 
 The place where I was born. 
 
 Where, thro' the spring-tide of my life, 
 
 The moments gaily flew ; 
 And where uninterrupted joy 
 
 Full twenty years I knew. 
 
 The daughter of an honest swain, 
 
 Fair Julia, long 1 lov'd ; 
 Nor long till kindly she confess'd 
 
 My passion she approv'd. 
 
 Increasing happiness and joy 
 
 To me'each morning brought, 
 
 And, if true bliss man e'er possess' d 
 'Twas mine, I vainly thought. 
 
 
180 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 By Hymen soon our hands were join'd, 
 My utmost wishes crown'd ; 
 
 And what most ardent love could hope, 
 Full realiz'd 1 found. 
 
 Bless' d with the chosen of my heart, 
 
 My Julia, lovely Bride! 
 My happiness was so complete, 
 
 I had no wish beside. 
 
 But, oh ! how little was the time 
 Those pleasures were to last ! 
 
 But one short week — fell ruin came, 
 That blessedness to blast! 
 
 It chanc'd that on a sultry day, 
 To seek the cooling- shade, 
 
 My Julia to the copse, alone, 
 Had negligently stray'd. 
 
 Sir Randolph, he, the haughty Lord 
 
 Of all this vast domain, 
 Had long seduction's basest arts 
 
 On Julia tried in vain. 
 
 He met her in the lonely shade, 
 He there resolv'd amain, 
 
 By violence to win the prize 
 He might not else obtain, 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 18J 
 
 Alarm'd — the fair one scream'd aloud ! 
 
 I heard — my sword I drew ; 
 And, wingd with fondness, thro' the grove 
 
 To her assistance flew. 
 
 I, in an instant, reach'd the place, 
 
 And there my Julia found 
 All breathless, struggling in his arms, 
 
 And sinking to the ground ! 
 
 " Turn, villain, turn ! (enrag'd, I cried) 
 
 And yield thy forfeit life; 
 Nor with impunity expect 
 
 To violate my wife." 
 
 As the fierce lioness who views 
 
 Her whelps by hunters torn, 
 So rush'd I to the fatal place, 
 
 With jealous fury borne. 
 
 With foul confusion in his looks, 
 
 My rage the villain saw \ 
 And, tho' he scom'd inglorious flight, 
 
 He had no time to draw. 
 
 But, as with more than mortal ire, 
 
 I madly onward press'd, 
 He turn'd my Julia to my sword, 
 
 Which stabb'd her lovely breast! 
 
182 THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC. 
 
 If keenest pangs of jealous hate 
 
 My bosom rent before ; 
 Yet, to behold this cruel scene, 
 
 Inflam'd me ten times more. 
 
 I madly bellow'd with my rage, 
 The cause was surely great ; 
 
 And tho' I took Sir Randolph's life, 
 Revenge felt incomplete ! 
 
 I pierc'd his body thro' and thro', 
 Remorse my heart had none j 
 
 For, oh ! my Julia, lovely bride ! 
 She was for ever gone ! 
 
 heav'ns! what anguish then was mine! 
 
 Revenue had done its worst : 
 Tho' late the happiest of mankind, 
 
 I now was doubly curs'd. 
 
 A whirling phrenzy seiz'd my brain, 
 
 Strange shadows dirnm'd my sight! 
 
 My burning eyes refus'd to flow, 
 And reason left me quite. 
 
 The bleeding bodies from the place 
 
 I madly dragg'd away ; 
 And in that grave, dug by these hands, 
 
 Now lies my Julia's clay, 
 
THE MOUNTAIN MANIAC 
 
 183 
 
 Expos'd upon the mountain's side 
 Sir Randolph's carcase lies ; 
 
 On his detested corse [ yet 
 Can glut my vengeful eyes ! 
 
 And here I range the forest wild, 
 
 Un wistful of relief! 
 Assur'd no hand, but that of death, 
 
 Can mitigate my grief. 
 
MARION MACKYE. 
 
 J3UT lately I pass'd by the heath cover'd hill, 
 
 Near the road where the traveller oft sees 
 The poor hapless maniac, who, seated there still, 
 On the green grassy bank, be the gale hot or chill, 
 Responsively sighs to the breeze. 
 
 Observe her shrunk eyes, how distracted they 
 stare, 
 
 And how blanch'd are her cheeks by her woe; 
 Her garments are rent, and her bosom is bare, 
 Her ringlets neglectedly float in the air, 
 
 As she hoots at the winds as they blow. 
 
 Yet beauty once sat on that now sallow cheek, 
 
 Soft lustre illumin'd her eye ; 
 Keen sense fir'd that heart, that's now ready to 
 
 break, 
 And the neighbours extol, as they frequently speak 
 
 Of the charms of poor Marion Mackye. 
 
MARION MACK YE. 1&& 
 
 Young" Andrew she lov'd, nor unheeded her flame, 
 
 The youth was as tender as true ; 
 One soul seem'd in both ev'ry passion to frame, 
 Their prospects, their hopes, and their fears were 
 the same, 
 
 And in both mutual sympathy grew. 
 
 A mariner he, o'er the boist'rous main, 
 Sought his fortune in many a clime j 
 Whilst she watch'd her flocks o'er the wide- 
 spreading plain, 
 Endear'd to each nymph, and admir'd by each 
 swain, 
 For Marion was just in her prime. 
 
 A contract of marriage- they mutually swore, 
 But, in hopes their poor stock to improve ! 
 He thought he would trust to the billows once 
 
 more, 
 By one lucky voy'ge to mend his little store, 
 Then return, and be bless'd with his love. 
 
 The canvas unfurl'd, soon the bark she set sail ; 
 
 Serene was the face of the main ; 
 The winds were auspicious, quite steady the gale, 
 And fate with success seem'd their passage to hail, 
 
 And the crew with their prospect were fain. 
 u 2 
 
186 MARION MACKYE. 
 
 The eyes of young' Marion the vessel pursued 
 
 As far as one s^jcck could be seen ; 
 But when the dear object no longer she view'd. 
 The fast falling- tears her fair bosom bedew'd, 
 
 And she sank, 'midst her griefs, on the green. 
 
 The neighbours the maid gently bore to her bow'r, 
 
 Kindly seeking to comfort her woes ; 
 But e*en from the morn till the midnight sad hour 
 Her eyes appear'd delug'd with one ceaseless 
 show'r, 
 And Marion seem'd lost to repose. 
 
 Tho' storms may perplex the vast depths of the 
 main, 
 
 And Nature's fair aspect deform ; 
 Yet but fur a period the conflict can reign, 
 Serenity, time shall restore us again, 
 
 And a calm still succeeds to a storm. 
 
 Thus Marion, poor girl! tho 1 shelanguish'd awhile 
 
 In all the excess of despair, 
 By degrees grew more tranquil, a hope-aiding 
 
 smile 
 Illumin'd her eye, her sad heart to beguile, 
 
 And serenity mix'd in her air. 
 
MRION MACKYE. 187 
 
 Yet constant at ev'ning, when business was o'er, 
 
 And day from the west 'gan to part, 
 Impatient she'd haste her away to the shore, 
 There over the ocean would axiously pore. 
 Sigh and pray for the youth of her heart ! 
 
 At length came the news that the bark, homeward 
 bound, 
 Was fast nearing the long wish'd-for port ; 
 What raptures the bosom of Marion now found ! . 
 Her wishes and pray'rs with success seem'd all 
 crown'd, 
 And no longer of fortune the sport. 
 
 Three whole tedious days at the haven she staid, 
 
 In hopes their arrival to hail \ 
 Each noise that she* heard — " They're now com- 
 ing/' she said, 
 In each passing tar her dear Andrew survey'd, 
 
 And their vessel in each passing sail. 
 
 The fourth morning came, but with it came the 
 news, 
 
 Ship and crew had all founder'd at sea ; 
 The shock all the reason of Marion subdues, 
 Of cruelty heav'n she dares to accuse, 
 
 And her wits are quite wander'd away. 
 
188 MARION MACKYE. 
 
 The corpse of her true love, by one kindly wa\c 
 
 Was wash'd up, with two or three more ; 
 A burial, in pity, the peasantry gave, 
 And all were together interr'd in one grave, 
 On a hillock that's close to the shore. 
 
 Mere seated she'll sob all the summer day long. 
 
 E'en in winter, be foul or be fair ; 
 Unheeding the traveller that passes along 1 , 
 Claps her hands at the birds as they carol their 
 song-, 
 
 Claps her hands, tho' there be not one here. 
 
 Or sometimes, perchance, to the beach she may 
 roam, 
 On the sad cruel billows to stare ; 
 There oft, in her phrenzy, find Andrew come 
 
 home, 
 Or see him wild riding upon the white foam, 
 Then again sink to gloomy despair. 
 
 But lately T pass'd her, sat on the green grave ; 
 
 I spoke, but she made no reply ; 
 Her hands she kept smiting, but gave me a waive, 
 As much as to say, I but solitude crave, 
 " And that, (I exclaim'd) hapless maid, thou shalt 
 have!" 
 
 And she sigh'd out — " Poor Marion Mackye." 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The following Ballad is taken from one in Dr. Piercy's collection, 
 called "■• Edward, Edward." I remember to have heard another 
 old set of this song, which seems, in my opinion, to be more 
 ancient than that of the Bishop's. It began thus — 
 
 O where gott'st thou that bloody sword, 
 
 Son Davy, son Davy, &c. 
 The tenor and equivoques of both were nearly the same, except 
 the catastrophe, in which one confesses the blood to be that of 
 his brother, whom he had killed in a passion, for plucking a 
 young willow, 
 
 " Which might have been a tree." 
 The other avows it to be the blood of his father, and curses his 
 mother's evil counsels for having been the virtual cause of the 
 horrid consequences. As tbe sequels of both are very unsatis- 
 factory, I have thought proper to assign a more probable rea- 
 son for the fatal recontre ; which, in my opinion, is preferable 
 to the original, which ever it be. 
 
 VV HY looks my son so ghastly pale, 
 Why shakes he thus with fear; 
 Why stands he mute — what can he ail? 
 O tell thy mother dear ! 
 
 "Yes, tell me, Godfrey, on thy word, 
 Whence comes that dripping- brand ? 
 
 Why reeking yet appears thy sword, 
 And whence that bloody hand ? 
 
Jy THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 " O mother dear ! what needs this fear 
 
 What causes this alarm? 
 The blood which you discover here, 
 
 Need indicate no harm. 
 
 " In Inglewood 1 chanc'd to spy 
 Some sport upon the plain ; 
 
 My falcon he refused to fly — 
 I wrung his neck in twain !" 
 
 " O son, O son ! to heav'n I would 
 'Twere sooth as thou hast said j 
 
 But certes, Godfrey, thy hawk's blood 
 Was never half so red." 
 
 " lady mother, trust thy son, 
 When he the truth shall tell ■ 
 
 -My greyhound he refos'd to run, 
 And by my sword he fell !" 
 
 son, O son! to heav'n I would 
 'Twere sooth as thou hast said ; 
 
 But certes, Godfrey, thy hound's blood 
 Was never half so red." 
 
 " Lady fair ! dispel your care, 
 When 1 the truth shall tell ; 
 
 This morning, as I chas'd a hare, 
 Full fast on Barrock fell ; 
 
THE FJiATIUClDE. HM 
 
 " My good grey lnare she restive grew, 
 
 Just as I made my start ; 
 Enrag'd, my angry sword 1 drew, 
 
 And stabb'd her thro' the heart ! 
 
 " She was my father's favourite, aye, 
 
 With care right costly bred ; 
 But what will now Sir Prosper say, 
 
 To find that she is dead ?" 
 
 " O son, son! to heav'n I would 
 
 'Twere sooth as thou hast said ; 
 But certes, Godfrey, thy mare's blood 
 
 Was never half so red." 
 
 " tell me, Godfrey, on thy word, 
 Whence comes that dripping brand ? 
 
 Why reeking yet appears thy sword, 
 And whence that bloody hand P 
 
 " O mother dear, 'tis meet I should, 
 
 T' equivocate is vaiu ; 
 It is my brother Gilferd's blood, 
 
 By me untimely slain !" 
 
 " say, when hell this purpose plann'd, 
 
 What demon strew'd the strife, 
 That thou should'st thus, with murd'ring hand 
 
 Destroy thy brother's, lire ? 
 
 
H>2 THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 ' £ Was it for this, all- gracious heav'n ? 
 
 That I two sons have borne P 
 That children have to me been giv'n. 
 
 To make me more forlorn ? 
 
 " O sure it is a doleful day, 
 
 A doleful one to me ; 
 That one should thus his brother slay, 
 
 And hang'd himself must be!" 
 
 " mother, 'twas a bitter cause 
 That urg'd this bitter deed ; 
 
 That made me break thro' Nature's law 
 That made my brother bleed ! 
 
 " My Emma — she, my married wife, 
 
 Whom I so dearly lov'd ; 
 She, whom I valued more than life, 
 
 Inconstant she has prov'd ! 
 
 " But oh ! the agonizing tale, 
 
 It rends my heart anew ; 
 And it but ekes unto my bale, 
 
 Her baseness to review. 
 
 " Returning from the morning chase.. 
 
 The harlot did 1 see 
 Within my brother's lew'd embrace, 
 
 All-yielding as might be ! 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 193 
 
 " With anger, no one might assuage, 
 
 To view such foul disgrace ; 
 And mad with jealousy and rage, 
 
 I rush'd unto the place. 
 
 " To punish their unseemly lust 
 
 My sword in haste I drew, 
 And, with one furious mortal thrust 
 
 Ran both their bodies thro' ! 
 
 " Then from the fatal galling scene 
 
 In haste did I recede, 
 For common justice, as I ween, 
 
 Will hunt me with all speed. 
 
 " Oh ! but it is a bitter blow, 
 
 And death we're sweet to me; 
 But that, alas! if seiz'd, 1 know 
 
 That death were on a tree! 
 
 "And how would you, my mother dear, 
 
 Support the lasting shame? 
 Or how the public curses hear, 
 
 Mix'd with thy Godfrey's name? 
 
 " No! to the Highlands I will hie, 
 
 In solitude I'll mourn ; 
 Unpitied live — unheeded die — 
 
 But never more return!" 
 e 2 
 
THE PILGRIM. 
 
 J^LOW from the marsh the lowing kine 
 The barefoot herdsman homeward drove ; 
 
 Faint gleam'd, athwart the distant Firth, 
 The sun, as day with darkness strove. 
 
 Sweet from the steeple's summit grey, 
 His ev'ning song- the starling" sung; 
 
 And homewards drawling to his task, 
 With listless looks the school-boy slung ; 
 
 When Lady Alice left her hall, 
 
 Her bosom rent with anxious care, 
 
 And walked towards the babbling brook, 
 To breathe awhile the fresh'ning air. 
 
 And, as she mournful thus d along, 
 The tears oft trickling from her eye, 
 
 There slowly winding on the way, 
 A weary palmer did she spy. 
 
 All venerable was his mein, 
 
 Tho' tatter' d were the weeds he wore, 
 But falt'ring seem'd his step, and slow, 
 
 And as he went he sigh'd full sore. 
 
THE PILGRIM. 195 
 
 " O Lady fair, some alms bestow, 
 (The bending 1 suppliant humbly said) 
 
 O Lady fair, some alms bestow, 
 
 By heav'n the boon shall be repaid; 
 
 '* For I am fainting with fatigue 
 
 And wandring thro' the live-long day : 
 
 And weak and feeble are my limbs ; 
 Then have some pity, Lady, pray." 
 
 " What are thy alms that thou would'st ask ? 
 
 What is the boon that thou would'st crave ? 
 What l may properly bestow, 
 
 That, pilgrim, freely shalt thou have." 
 
 " I'd take a morsel of your bread, 
 
 I'd take a little of your beer ; 
 And, Lady, too, with your fair leave, 
 
 I'd ask for one night's lodging here." 
 
 M Most rev'rend friend, (fair Alice said) 
 
 Right welcome is what you request, 
 And even longer, if you choose, 
 
 May you remain and take your rest." 
 
 " Thanks ! Lady fair, (the palmer cried) 
 Well guerdon'd may this goodness be ; 
 
 For, since I left fair Palestine, 
 I have not seen such courtesy. 
 
I9G THE PILGRIM. 
 
 " Say, father, (cried the courteoas dame 
 Impatiently) and hast thou been 
 
 Of late on Syria's fatal shores, 
 
 Or there the Christian armies seen ? 
 
 "Lord Maurice, he for whom I sigh, 
 With thousands there now risks his life \ 
 His absence three long- tedious years 
 
 I've sadly wept, a widow'd wife !" 
 
 " Fain would I of my husband hear, 
 That g-en'rous Lord for whom I mourn ; 
 
 Fain would I of his welfare know, 
 But fainer still of his return." 
 
 " Dry up your tears, good Lady fair, 
 Yet happier days expect to see ; 
 
 Dry up your tears, for know that I 
 
 Have welcome tidings brought for thee. 
 
 " Lord Maurice, him for whom you mourn, 
 Fair Lady, him full well I know ; 
 
 Oft have I seen him in the camp, 
 Oft seen him combat with the foe. 
 
 " His ceaseless fondness for his wife, 
 Oft have I heard him weeping tell ; 
 
 But for thy consolation know, 
 Lord Maurice is alive and well. 
 
THE PILGRIM. 197 
 
 " Nor long" fair Lady, shall you weep, 
 Thus, widow like, your wasting 1 charms, 
 
 But very soon expect to hold 
 
 Your long-lost husband in your arms." 
 
 " Thanks, g-entle pilgrim, for thy news ; 
 
 In sooth, right welcome news to me ! 
 And, if my heart be light to-day, 
 
 To-morrow thine shall lighter be. 
 
 " But tell me, father, to what chance 
 
 This strange intelligence you owe, 
 Or that my Lord will come so soon, 
 
 Pray tell me, stranger, how you know?" 
 
 Tir'd with the unsuccessful war, 
 
 And long delays, the Christian host, 
 
 On board of their respective ships, 
 Have left the hostile Syrian coast. 
 
 "Already in their various ports 
 
 The English squadron safely ride ; 
 And soon, I ween, Lord Maurice will 
 
 Be here, whatever should betide." 
 
 " Now hast thou made my heart right glad, 
 
 (Fair Alice to the palmer said,) 
 And, in proportion to my joy, 
 
 Thy welcome tale shall be repaid. 
 
198 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 " Then turn thee, pilgrim to the hall, 
 
 There bathe and wash thy weary feet ; 
 Thy journey's ended — and 'tis said, 
 That labour makes repose more sweet." 
 
 And she has ta'en the palmer's arm, 
 And kindly led him to the hall; 
 
 The change in fair Alicia's face 
 Was notic'd by the servants all. 
 
 And he has with the Lady sat, 
 
 And there on costliest viands far'd ; 
 
 And to repose his weary limbs, 
 
 The softest couch has been prepar'd. 
 
 The banquet done, the way-worn guest 
 A servant gently leads to bed, 
 
 With pillows made of softest down, 
 Whereon to rest his aching head. 
 
 And Lady Alice from the hall, 
 Has lightly to her chamber gone; 
 
 But restless thro' the live-long night, 
 Or sleep or slumber found she none. 
 
 But, as with watchful eye she lay, 
 Her face towards the chamber door, 
 
 She thought she saw Lord Maurice glide. 
 All lightly arm'd, across the floor! 
 
THE PILGRIM. 199 
 
 Her throbbing heart beat high with fear ; 
 
 Chill horror check'cl life's circling tide; 
 But, ere she might for mercy call, 
 
 The bursting doors flew open wide. 
 
 Three ruffians enter'd, in whose looks 
 Might well be seen their purpose foul ; 
 
 Fair Alice mark'd their fell approach 
 In all the agony of soul. 
 
 As they advanc'd, she shriek'd aloud, 
 
 Uncertain of her pending doom ; 
 When, lo ! from t'other side was seen 
 
 The pilgrim rushing thro' the room ! 
 
 " Hence, hell-hounds, fly ! (he sternly cried,) 
 And save your lives, ere 'tis too late, 
 
 Nor this fair Lady's soft repose 
 Thus impious dare to violate!" 
 
 " Goto, thou silly palmer go! 
 
 What brings thee here, old dotard, say ? 
 Get to thy crucifix and beads, 
 
 Get to thy couch again and pray !" 
 
 " Get thou to hell ! (the palmer cried,) 
 
 I'll teach thee to repent thy scorn ; 
 For, by the holy cross I swear ! 
 
 'Twere better thou hadst ne'er been born !" 
 
200 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 So said — he grasp'd him by the side, 
 The yielding flesh his fingers tore ; 
 
 The tortur'd villain yell'd aloud, — 
 His entrails fell upon the floor ! 
 
 Then in his arras the next he seizd, 
 
 And thro' the window dash'd him straight ! 
 
 Hurl'd like a thunder-bolt, he fell, 
 And in the area finds his fate! 
 
 The third, who seem'd to be the chief, 
 Affrighted, and surpris'd to view 
 
 His comrades' fate, with kindling rage, 
 In haste his threat'ning rapier drew. 
 
 " Thou draw'st in vain, (the pilgrim cried,) 
 That sword thy life but ill defends; 
 
 Give up thy weapon and thyself, 
 Or here at once thy being ends !" 
 
 Enrag'd, the villain onward press'd, 
 With aspect fierce and ruffian mein ; 
 
 The palmer straight his blade unsheath'd, 
 Which hitherto he'd kept unseen. 
 
 Then at the villain aim'd a blow, 
 That armour vainly might resist ; 
 
 The guiltless sword forsook the hand, 
 The sever'd hand forsook the wrist ! 
 
THE PILGRIM. 201 
 
 At once confounded and dismay'd, 
 
 To be thus foil'd in such a strife, 
 The vanquish' d bravo on his knees, 
 
 In suppliant terms now begs his life. 
 
 
 " Live, and be hang'd ! for that's thy fate, 
 (The pilgrim knight all sternly said) 
 
 This failure has a bitter price 
 For all thy former follies paid, 
 
 11 1 heard your consultations base, 
 
 In the next chamber where I lay ; 
 Heard all your projects, and resolv'd 
 
 Your wicked purposes to stay. 
 
 " And you, fair Lady, should have been 
 
 A victim to this villain's lust, 
 Had I, your saviour, rot been sent 
 
 By Providence all wise and just. 
 
 M His brutal ends accomplished here, 
 They meant to plunder next the hall; 
 
 Then, any uproar to prevent, 
 To massacre the servants all. 
 
 " Get hence, base wretch ! and staunch thy blood; 
 
 That hand 6hall steal, shall stab no more : 
 Go to a convent, and repent 
 
 Thy vices practis'd heretofore." 
 d 2 
 
-02 THE P LLC HIM. 
 
 " God-like deliv'rer, (Alice said)i 
 A boundless debt to you 1 owe, 
 
 If, as I thought, 'twere great before, 
 'Tis certainly much greater now. 
 
 " But stranger, tell, (the' Lady said) 
 
 What is your mission— what your name?! 
 
 All weak and weary with your way, 
 Last night you to the castle came: 
 
 And feebly went yon to your bed, 
 
 And sore of your fatigue conaplain'd ; 
 
 And yet with very short repose 
 
 Have you Herculean, vigour gain'di.'' 
 
 " If then, i must the truth, declare, 
 Let not my words renew, your fear ; 
 
 As 'tis the love of you alone, 
 
 Fair Lady, which has brought me here." 
 
 Pale turn'd the lovely Lady's face, 
 Her looks express' da deep surprise; 
 
 And, as with speechless grief she sat> 
 On him she fix'd her, piteous eyes. 
 
 Then off he cast his grisly, beard, 
 
 And weeds wherewith he had been dress'd ; 
 And, to the Lady's wond'ring view, 
 
 The brave Lord Maurice stood, confeas'd! 
 
THE PILGRIM. 203 
 
 " O my dear Lord !" (fair Alice cried) 
 'Twas all her tongue had pow'r to say ; 
 
 Too rapid far had been surprise, 
 
 And on his breast she swoon'd away ! 
 
 But soon the husband's tender care 
 
 Restor'd the agitated wife ; 
 And happy, as the story goes, 
 
 Continued all their future life. 
 

 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 L WAS early on a summer morn, 
 Eudolpha, lovely fair! 
 Rose from her couch, and all alone 
 Walk'd forth to take the air. 
 
 Along the winding streamlet's side, 
 That whimpled thro' the grove, 
 
 The fair one walk'd, and sweetly sung 
 The song of artless love. 
 
 Her lay was like the linnet's strain, 
 
 As tuneful and as sweet ; 
 And, as she walk'd, the primrose seem'd 
 
 To smile beneath her feet. 
 
 Orlando was, the following morn, 
 
 To take her for his bride, 
 And softly did Eudolpha seem 
 
 The ling' ring hours to chide. 
 
 " Roll on ye hours ! (the damsel said,) 
 
 Nor thus my bliss delay : 
 Roll on, ye tardy hours ! and bring 
 
 The happy bridal day. 
 
FATAL OMENS. 20o 
 
 How painful to the anxious heart 
 
 Procrastination proves ; 
 Nor better is that pain conceiv'd 
 
 Than by the lass who loves. 
 
 Yet still Eudolpha sweetly sung — 
 
 " The wedding-day is near, 
 Orlando is, I know, too true 
 
 To leave me aught to fear." 
 
 But, as she turn'd the mantling grove, 
 
 An object met her eyes, 
 Which, tho' she was in merry mood, 
 
 Transfix' d her with surprise : — 
 
 Betwixt her and the grey-ey'd east 
 
 A female form she view'd ; 
 But soon it vanish'd from her sight, 
 
 Nor for a moment stood. 
 
 The vestments which the phantom wore 
 
 Were like the streams of light; 
 Her steps were soundless as the breath, 
 
 Her looks were heav'nly bright. 
 
 But tho' around the spectre's face 
 
 Angelic radiance shone, 
 Eudolpha well could recognise 
 
 The features of her own. 
 
206 *ATAL OMENS. 
 
 " Now this is surely my own wraith, 
 
 (The fearful damsel said,) 
 But it is morning-, sith I ween 
 
 I need not be afraid." 
 
 Yet, pale and pensive, to her home 
 
 The fair Eudolpha hied ; 
 Her song was ceas'd, her heart was sad, 
 
 And now and then she sigh'd. 
 
 And homeward as the heartless maid 
 
 Her pensive course pursu'd, 
 Four silent magpies o'er the way, 
 
 Came fluttering thro* the wood. 
 
 A hare, too, cross'd, from her left hand, 
 
 The road with nimble pace, 
 And, as the creature pass'd, it star'd 
 
 The damsel in the face! 
 
 " What mean these boding signs (she said) 
 
 Or what may this forebear ? 
 A strange dejection weighs me down, 
 
 And kills my heart with care. 
 
 " What would my fearful fancy urge ? 
 
 No, no ! it must not be: — 
 Orlando ! — O may heav'n forbid ! 
 
 Mischance hath happen'd thee." 
 
FATAL OMENS. 207 
 
 Eudolpha reach'd her father's house, 
 
 Orlando he was there, 
 The pensive gloom forsook her face, 
 
 Her heart forgot its cave. 
 
 His presence ev'ry fear dispels, 
 
 His fondness calms her breast; 
 Again resumes the lovely maid — 
 
 " To-morrow I am bless'd." 
 
 Soon as the dusky ev'ning came, 
 
 Orlando and the maid 
 Again an amorous saunter took 
 
 Along the woodland shade. 
 
 The winds were hush'd, the sky serene, 
 
 No zephyr shook the spray, 
 No sound throughout the grove was heard 
 
 But Philomela's lay. 
 
 When, feebly glimm'ring on the green, 
 
 A light the lovers view, 
 Which from the neighb'ring hamlet came, 
 
 And to the church-yard drew. 
 
 Hoarse croak'd the raven on the spire, 
 
 The owlet rais'd her scream, 
 Whilst slowly onward sped the light 
 
 With faint but steady gleam. 
 
208 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 Attendant with the twinkling- ray 
 
 No person either view'd ; 
 But slow it skimm'd along- the air, 
 
 And o'er the ehurch-yard stood. 
 
 " Ah, me ! (Eudolpha sadly said) 
 
 Orlando, much I fear, 
 Strange omens and most luckless signs 
 
 This day I've witness'd here. 
 
 " Good heav'n ! in holy keeping have 
 Both us and ours this night ! 
 
 For much I dread some dire mischance 
 Before to-morrow's light." 
 
 " Dispel those foolish fears, my love.. 
 
 (Orlando smiling said) 
 If virtue be of heav'n the care, 
 
 Thou need'st not be afraid. 
 
 " To-morrow, love, dost thou not know, 
 
 Our bridal is to be ? 
 And sure thou know'st my heart too well. 
 
 To question aught in me." 
 
 M O heav'n forbid ! (Eudolpha said) 
 
 A thought should e'er arise 
 To question my Orlando's love, 
 
 Which more than life I prize. 
 
FATAL OMENS. "209 
 
 " But those repeated dire portents 
 
 Have such impression made, 
 That I, in spite of all my hopes, 
 
 Must own myself afraid." 
 
 When homeward o'er the dreary green 
 
 Return'd the youthful pair, 
 The fair Eudolpha's face still shew'd 
 
 The marks of inward care. 
 
 The damsel to her chamber hied, 
 
 But rest she could not find, 
 The recollection of the day 
 
 By night engross'd her mind. 
 
 i 
 Nor could Orlando's fondness aught 
 
 Her gloom of mind dispel ; 
 Though ev'ry argument was tried 
 
 Her lab' ring fears to quell. 
 
 At length the balmy hand of sleep 
 
 Her weary eye-lids clos'd ; 
 And for a while her troubl'd mind 
 
 Appear'd to be compos'd. 
 
 But soon the fearful fair one wakes, 
 
 E'en sleep could give no rest ; 
 For busy fancy kept alive 
 
 The terrors of her breast. 
 E 2 
 
210 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 With feeble ray the wat'ry moon 
 Athwart her chamber shone ; 
 
 Hoarse down the chimney blew the wind. 
 With melancholy tone. 
 
 With sleepless eye and fearful heart 
 
 The wistful fair one lay, 
 And long impatiently she watqh'd 
 
 The wish'd-for dawn of day. 
 
 But as she look'd with anxious eyes, 
 
 Eudolpha thought she spied 
 A little old man, with aspect grim, 
 
 Standing by her bedside ! 
 
 Two cubits seem'd to be his height, 
 
 As much around, or more ; 
 But of no common form was he; — 
 
 Decrepitude all o'er ! 
 
 His face was of a mouldy hue, 
 
 But menacing his mein, 
 His looks were like the heath-brown bent, 
 
 His eyes were grassy green. 
 
 Eudolpha lay in sad affright, 
 
 Her heart it beat full sore ; 
 For such a foul-fac'd sprite as he 
 
 She ne'er had seen before ! 
 
FATAL OMENS. 211 
 
 " Eudolpha, thou shalt be my bride, 
 
 (The hideous spectre cried) 
 Eudolpha, by to-morrow's night — 
 
 Yes — thou shalt be my bride ! 
 
 t 
 
 "I know that thou hast fondly hop'd, 
 
 But vain those hopes shall be ; 
 Expect not, howsoe'er it seem, 
 
 Orlando's bride to be. 
 
 " 'Tis true that thou hast fondly hop'd, 
 
 But hope will oft deceive ; 
 That thou shalt be Orlando's bride, 
 
 Gay Lady, ne'er believe. 
 
 " For know, that Destiny has doom'd 
 
 That union ne'er shall be ; 
 Eudolpha, by to-morrow's night 
 
 Expect to sleep with me." 
 
 \ 
 But straightway crew the shrill-voic'd cock, 
 
 The frightful spectre fled ; 
 
 Eudolpha, pale and sick of heart, 
 
 Lay trembling in her bed. 
 
 At length the weary morning came, 
 
 The woeful damsel rose, 
 The secret burthen of her heart, 
 
 Her fear full plainly shews. 
 
212 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 " What ails my love ? (Orlando said) 
 What makes her look so sad ? 
 
 Methinkfe on such a morn as this 
 She rather should be glad. 
 
 "For where's the maid, or far or near, 
 
 Who, on her bridal day, 
 Would not her lovliest looks assume, 
 
 And study to be gay ?" 
 
 " Orlando, when the secret cause 
 
 Of all, you come to know, 
 Perhaps you'll cease to ask why thus, 
 
 I wear a face of woe." 
 
 Then to her list'ning lover she 
 Her wond'rous tale hath told ; 
 
 With added observations, drawn 
 From instances of old. 
 
 " T' indulge those fears, (Orlando said) 
 
 Is folly's worst extreme; 
 The little old man that you have seen 
 
 Is nothing but a dream. 
 
 " The rest are but old women's tales, 
 The whimsies of the weak ; 
 
 Then, fair one, let the smile of hope 
 Again adorn thy cheek. 
 
FATAL OMEN'S. 213 
 
 11 Drive melancholy from your mind, 
 
 For dang'rous is its use ; 
 By it full oft imagin'd fears 
 
 Will real ills produce. 
 
 " Go to thy toilet, charmer, go, 
 
 And let thy fears subside ; 
 The virgin blush, the willing smile, 
 
 Seem better in the bride." 
 
 Eudolpha to her chamber went, 
 
 Her friendly glass she took ; 
 But, as she view'd her pallid cheek, 
 
 Her hand convulsive shook ! 
 
 Down fell the mirror to the floor, 
 
 Which all in flinders flew ; 
 And if her face was pale before, 
 
 It now far paler grew ; 
 
 When, lo! she heard a hollow groan 
 
 Behind the tap'stried wall; 
 And sharp and shrill a voice unknown 
 
 Eudolpha's name did call ! 
 
 The damsel dress' d herself with speed, 
 
 And to the hall she hied, 
 Where all the wedding-guests were sat, 
 
 To compliment the bride. 
 
214 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 But right forlorn the lady look'd, 
 
 Tho' 'twas her bridal day; 
 And sad and cheerless was her heart, 
 
 When others all were gay. 
 
 At length they leave the spacious hall, 
 
 And to the church repair ; 
 Orlando,, comeliest of the youths, 
 
 And his Eudolpha fair. 
 
 But, scarcely had he left the gate, 
 
 When he cried out amain — 
 " I have forgot the wedding-ring, 
 
 And must return again!" 
 
 Swift to the hall Orlando flew, 
 
 And eke as swift return'd ; 
 But she the ominous delay 
 
 With inward bodings mourn'd. 
 
 At length they came to the church-gate, 
 
 The ready priest was there; 
 Each face the smile of pleasure wore, 
 
 Save her's, the pensive fair; 
 
 For, wrapp'd in thought, she walk'd along, 
 
 Nor once a side-look gave; 
 When, witless of her steps, she fell 
 
 Into a new-made grave! 
 
 
IPATAL OMENS. 215 
 
 All pale and speechless, from the tomb 
 
 They rais'd the hapless maid ; 
 And each, to soothe her heavy heart, 
 
 Employ their friendly aid. 
 
 But quite in vain the efforts prove 
 
 Of lover, friends, and all ; 
 The glow of pleasure to her cheek, 
 
 No reason can recall. 
 
 But to the altar on she went, 
 
 Unconscious led along ; 
 Nor minded she one object round, 
 
 Nor notic'd aught the throng. 
 
 The nuptial rite, with solemn air, 
 
 The priest had just began, 
 When loud and sudden scream'd the bride — 
 
 " There comes the little old man !" 
 
 With consternation all were seiz'd, 
 
 Each heart with pity fill'd ; 
 But, save the hapless bride alone, 
 
 The spectre none beheld. 
 
 Fast fled the roses from her cheek, 
 
 The lustre left her eye ; 
 Her lab'ring breast convulsive heav'd 
 
 With many a heavy sigh. 
 
216 FATAL OMENS. 
 
 Then, with a loud and deadly groan, 
 Which shew'd the conflict o'er ; 
 
 She lifeless sunk upon the ground, 
 Nor utter'd one word more! 
 
JESSICA, JOE, and the SOLDIER. 
 
 L HE sun had just set in an ev'ning serene, 
 And the sky was fast garbing in black, 
 When Jessica tript o'er the dew-moisten'd green 
 To look for her Joe, who at Gosport had been, 
 And she now was expecting him back. 
 
 For Joe, honest soul ! was a sailor as kind 
 
 As e'er swigg'd of the heart-cheering bowl ; 
 Tho' oft he'd been toss'd by the waves and the wind, 
 Yet they ne'er had once ruffled the calm of his mind, 
 And his Jessy he lov'd to his soul. 
 
 But Joseph, poor lad, was not doom'd to return, 
 
 For the press-gang had grappled him fast; 
 While Jessy was left his sad absence to mourn, 
 With anxious suspense in impatience to burn, 
 And he to the tender was pass'd. 
 
 Soon the vessel unraoor'd, what a parting to view ! 
 
 'T would have melted the heart of a stone ! 
 She constancy vow'd, begg'd her Joe to be true, 
 Kiss'd, shook hands, blew her nose, made a ten- 
 der adieu ! 
 Then homewards she hied all alone. 
 P 2 
 
'218 JESSICA, JOE, ANT) THE SOLDIER. 
 
 For five tedious years o'er the rough roaring main, 
 
 Honest Joseph was banded, poor boy! 
 At length gentle peace call'd him homeward again, 
 With his pouch full of shiners, his heart void of 
 pain, 
 And his cottage he sought full of joy. 
 
 But say what surprise in his bosom must be, 
 
 When, on suddenly op'ning the door, 
 He saw his dear wife, all as brisk as a bee, 
 Singing sweet lullaby to a child on her knee, 
 And a soldier was pacing the floor. 
 
 The short interjection of humph ! 'seap'd his lips, 
 
 Whilst he star'd with confusion around ; 
 " Humph again! (said the wife) you must blame 
 
 your long trips, 
 You should come sooner home, we can't say for 
 odd slips ; 
 Come, Joe, take a chair and sit down." 
 
 Joe bluster'd awhile, call'd her base and unkind, 
 
 Curs'd and storm'd, rent with rage and despair: 
 Such treatment he never expected to find, 
 Swore women were fickle and false as the wind. 
 Then calmly sank down in the chair. 
 
JESSICA, JOE, AND THE SOLDIER. 219 
 
 The soldier, in silence tho' hitherto pent, 
 
 A sort of a parley propos'd ; 
 He thought further mischief 'twould likely pre- 
 vent, 
 To which pliant Jessica gave her consent, 
 
 And Joe with a treaty soon clos'd. 
 
 'Twas there stipulated the sailor should be 
 Paramount whilst on shore he remain'dj 
 But when he'd occasion to venture to sea, 
 The soldier in turn then the landlord should b«, 
 And the brats be in common maintain'd. 
 
 Thus many a brave hero who ventures his life, 
 
 From ease and each solace debarr'd, 
 Oft needs these gay laurels he gathers in strife, 
 To cover the honours conferr'd by his wife, — 
 Too often the warrior's reward. 
 
THE 
 
 DEATH OF ORFIN. 
 
 XXlGH upon the craggy steep, 
 Orfin stood in pensive woe, 
 
 Poring o'er the dinsome deep, 
 Billowing on the beach below. 
 
 Heedless of the deaf'ning roar, 
 He beheld the raging flood ; 
 
 Fearless felt the rocky shore 
 Shake beneath him as he stood. 
 
 Loudly blew the western blast, 
 
 Fast the cloud-fraught torrents fall, 
 
 Quick the quiv'ring light'ning pass'd ; 
 Orfin heedless bears it all. 
 
 Like the op'ning glare of day, 
 
 Anger sat upon his brow ; 
 Flaming like the pointed ray 
 
 From his sparkling eyes below. 
 
THE DEATH OF ORPIN. 221 
 
 On his breast the beamy star, 
 
 Wrought in gold and em' raids bright, 
 
 Gaily glitter* d from afar, 
 
 Like the streams of crystal light. 
 
 O'er his back, in sullen pride, 
 
 Broad his massy shield was slung ; 
 Whilst, suspended by his side, 
 
 Loose his mighty sabre hung. 
 
 Oft had he its temper tried, 
 
 Oft the foe its force had felt, 
 Oft in blood had it been dy'd, 
 
 And to hundreds death had dealt. 
 
 From its sheath, with sullen ire, 
 
 Fierce the glittering glaive he drew ; 
 
 Fierce he struck; the sparkling fire 
 From the rocks effulgent flew. 
 
 " Say, (he cried) shall Orfin bear 
 
 Thus to hear his Lord defam'd ? 
 Or great Geon-ergon hear 
 
 By his foes a coward nam'd ? 
 
 " Geon-ergon,* mighty king, 
 
 Monarch of the hundred isles ; 
 In whose court the graces spring, 
 
 On whose reign kind heav'n still smiles. 
 
 • Geou-ergon, a husbandman. 
 
222 THE DEATH OF ORFIN. 
 
 " Shall he meanly bear the scorn 
 Of the base-born tyrants round ? 
 
 Shall his provinces be torn, 
 And he basely be uncrown'd? 
 
 " No! while Orfin's arm can wield 
 This fair sword it ne'er shall be ; 
 
 Brave Insulia* ne'er shall yield 
 Her proud empire of the sea." 
 
 Like the black- wing'd storm that blows 
 O'er the Arctic region drear, 
 
 Orfin's indignation rose, 
 
 As he rais'd the threat'ning spear. 
 
 When, far o'er the tow'ring steep, 
 He beheld, with wond'ring eyes, 
 
 From the bosom of the deep, 
 Fair Insulia's genius rise. 
 
 Azure was her flowing robe, 
 
 Dignity her aspect fill'd ; 
 In one hand she bore a globe, 
 
 Whilst her next a sceptre held. 
 
 " Orfin, son of Birman,t hear! 
 
 (Said the pow'r ;) my words attend : 
 Brave Insulia needs thy spear, 
 
 Geon-ergon thou defend. 
 
 * From Insula, f Altered from Birnham. 
 
THE DEATH OF ORFIN. 223 
 
 " Danger circles him around, 
 
 Ruin threatens from afar; 
 Thou alone by heaven art found 
 
 Worthy to support the war. 
 
 " Carrol,* King- of lspan,f he, 
 
 Leagru'd with neighbouring- tvrants swore, 
 That ere long his fleets should be 
 
 Moor'd on fair Albania's^ shore. 
 
 " Fear not his imperious boast ; 
 
 This he may repent too late; 
 Fear not for his mighty host — 
 
 Little see they of their fate. 
 
 " Soon the renegado king, 
 
 (Offspring of the rocky isle,) 
 Shall to bondage Carrol bring, 
 
 And his kingdom shall despoil. 
 
 " Bid Albania's heroes rise, 
 
 Bid Irenia's§ sons be true ; 
 Nor Septentrion aid despise ; 
 
 Victory is promis'd you ! 
 
 * From Cavolus. -J- From Hispan, or Hispaniola. 
 X From Albana, or Albion. § From Irenia, or Erin. 
 
224 THE DEATH OF ORFIN. 
 
 " For the mighty warriors call ; 
 
 Let the deaf'ning thunders roar ; 
 Soon shall Ispan's glory fall, 
 
 E'en upon their native shore. 
 
 " But, undaunted champion, know, 
 That, amidst the bloody strife, 
 
 Ere half conquer'd be the foe, 
 Orfin, thou must lose thy life ! 
 
 " Let not this thy soul dismay, 
 Yield not thou to puerile dread; 
 
 Deathless glory crowns the day, 
 Paradise shall be thy bed. 
 
 " Is the sacrifice too great, 
 Sets a virtuous nation free ? 
 
 Orfin, know by this thy feat, 
 Millions owe their lives to thee." 
 
 Orfin heard the stern decree, 
 
 But unmov'd he heard the whole; 
 
 Thousands 'twould have dash'd, but he 
 Felt new ardour tire his soul ! 
 
 With a more than mortal mien, 
 Gracefully the hero bow'd ; 
 
 While his countenance serene, 
 Prov'd him of th' election proud. 
 
THE DEATH OP ORFIN*. 225 
 
 Soon Insulia's gallant fleet, 
 
 Fraught with heroes, leaves the coast; 
 Not to wait for, but to meet, 
 
 Carrol's pride and Ispan's boast. 
 
 Orfin, son of Berman, he, 
 
 Foremost in the high command ; 
 Leads his squadrons o'er the sea, 
 
 To explore the hostile land. 
 
 And, as from their native shore, 
 
 Briskly ply the martial crew, 
 Orfin, ne'er to see it more, 
 
 Ling'ring looks a last adieu ! 
 
 What, tho' certain of his doom, 
 
 Ev'n without the hope of life • 
 Orfin shrinks not from the tomb, 
 
 Eager for the glorious strife. 
 
 Soon the hostile squadrons join, 
 
 Soon for action they prepare ; 
 Soon they form th' embattl'd line, 
 
 And loud thunders shake the air. 
 
 Death assumes his direst forms, 
 
 Clad in smoke and mingling fire ; 
 Devastation widely storms, 
 
 With each burst whole heaps expire. 
 g 2 
 
-26 THE DEATH OF ORFIN. 
 
 Like a lion in the fight, 
 Orfin rages far and near ; 
 
 All his friends confess his might, 
 All his foes are shook with fear. 
 
 Orfin saw proud Ispan's boast, 
 Ship by ship, inglorious yield; 
 
 Ev'n upon their native coast, 
 Feebly struggling for the field. 
 
 Half their power had been subdued, 
 Half the victory was won, 
 
 Yet the contest was pursued 
 Fierce as when it first begun. 
 
 Orfin thro' the thick'nhrg war 
 Stood above his peers confest, 
 
 Seen conspicuous from afar 
 By the blazon on his breast, 
 
 Ispan's warriors saw with grief 
 All the feats of Bernlan's son ; 
 
 Saw the crescent-crested chiefj 
 Had the hard-fought battle Won. 
 
 Stung with rage and mingling shame, 
 Vengeance glistening in his eye, 
 
 Argon took the deadly aim, 
 " Orfin, (said the warrior) die!" 
 
 
THE DEATH OF ORFIN. 227 
 
 To his breast the engine dire 
 
 He the cruel Argon drew; 
 Pinion'd by th' impulsive fire, 
 
 Fate's commision'd warrant flew. 
 
 Orfin's breast the bullet found, 
 
 Deep it pierc'd the hero's heart ; 
 Life, retiring from the wound, 
 
 Seem'd impatient to depart. 
 
 " I have done my duty here, 
 
 (Faint th' expiring warrior cried) 
 Victory, I know is near!" — 
 
 Saying — clos'd his eyes, and died. 
 
 Pitying angels from the sky, 
 
 When they saw the conflict cease ; 
 Snatch'd his spirit, and on high 
 
 Bore it to the realms of peace. 
 
THE VAMPYRE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The story of the Vampyre is founded on an opinion or report which 
 prevailed in Hungary, and several parts of Germany, towards 
 the beginning - of the last century :— It was then asserted, that, 
 in several places, dead persons had been known to leave their 
 graves, and, by night, to revisit the habitations of their friends ; 
 whom, by smkosity, they drained of their blood as they slept. 
 The person thus phlebotomised was sure to become a Vampyre in 
 his turn ; and if it had not been for a lucky thought of the clergy, 
 who ingeniously recommended staking them in their graves, 
 we should by this time have had a greater swarm of blood-suck- 
 ers than we have at present, numerous as they are. Many and 
 ingenious were the animadversions, both of the faculty and cler- 
 gy, to adopt some probable reasons for the physical cause of such 
 an uncommon phenomenon. — It was asserted that a portion of 
 the animal spirits, not having escaped at the decease of the body, 
 had retained a power of volition ; and, investing themselves 
 with some part of the body which had not immediately yielded 
 to putrefaction, tbey were thus enabled to make those prodigious 
 excursions from the grave, and to return at pleasure without any 
 apparent inconvenience. Others were of opinion that these were 
 a class of demons, who are supposed to be very numerous, who 
 getting possession of any human excrescences, rendered them- 
 selves partially corporeal, and perfectly visible at pleasure. From 
 some of our modern voyagers it appears, that the notion of the ex- 
 istence ofVampyres was very generally known and credited among 
 the Dutch, and some other settlements in America. — I do not 
 imagine that a thousandth part of the world are acquainted with 
 the reason why the secundine, immediately after the nativity 
 of the foetus, is so carefully deflagrated by the obstetric and 
 others, who preside at the accouchement. This was founded on 
 the opinion that those numerous domestic demons, of whom they 
 had such a perfect belief, were tenacious of any opportunity 
 
THE VAMPYRE. 229 
 
 that furnished them with a means of obtaining any portion of 
 humanity, which they certainly preferred to any other animal 
 substances. We may suppose that the umbellicum would make 
 a very desirable jerkin for one of these gentry. Hence it has 
 been, that since they had such a desire to rentier themselves in 
 part corporeal and visible, as it pleased them, that when human 
 excrescences were not easily obtainable, they were forced to re- 
 pair to the common slaughter-houses, carrion heaps, &c. there 
 to array themselves in such habiliments as chance threw in their 
 way. From which we may infer the reason so many of our 
 common apparitions have, per force, been compelled to appear 
 in the forms of horses, cows, sheep, asses, dogs, cats, &c, &c. 
 in fine, every sort of animal ; so that many of these might, in 
 fact, be saiil to be the ghosts of the animals they represented, 
 rather than of any particular person. 
 
 W HY looks my lord so deadly pale? 
 Why fades the crimson from his cheek ? 
 What can my dearest husband ail ? 
 
 Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak ! 
 
 " Why, at the silent hour of rest, 
 Dost thou in sleep so sadly mourn ? 
 
 As tho' with heaviest griefs oppress'd, 
 Griefs too distressful to be borne. 
 
 " Why heaves thy breast ? — why throbs thy 
 
 heart ? 
 O speak ! and if there be relief, 
 
 Thy Gertrude solace shall impart, 
 
 If not, at least shall share thy grief. 
 
g30 THE VAMPYRB. 
 
 " Wan is that, cheek, which once the bloom 
 Of manly beauty sparkling shew'd ; 
 
 Dim are those eyes, in pensive gloam, 
 That late with keenest lustre glow'd. 
 
 " Say why, too, at the midnight hour, 
 You sadly pant and tug for breath, 
 
 As if same supernat ral pow'r 
 
 Were pulling you away to death? 
 
 » Restless, tho' sleeping, still you groan, 
 And with convulsive horror start; 
 
 Herman ! to thy wife make known 
 That grief which preys upon thy heart:" 
 
 " O Gertrude ! how shall I relate 
 Th' uncommon anguish that I feel j 
 
 Strange as severe is this my fate,— * 
 A fate I cannot long conceal. 
 
 « In spite of all my wonted strength, 
 Stern destiny has seal'd my doom ; 
 
 The dreadful malady at length 
 Will drag me to the silent tomb !" 
 
 " But say , my Herman, what's the cause 
 Of this distress, and all thy care, 
 
 That vulture-like, thy vital gnaws, 
 And trails thy bosom with despair ? 
 
THE VAMPYRE. 231 
 
 " Sure this can be no common grief, 
 
 Sure this can be no common pain ? 
 Speak, if this world contain relief, 
 
 That soon thy Gertrude shall obtain. " 
 
 '* O Gertrude, 'tis a horrid cause, 
 
 O Gertrude, 'tis unusual care, 
 That, vulture-like, my vital gnaws, 
 
 And galls my bosom with despair. 
 
 11 Young Sigisuiund, my once dear friend. 
 
 But lately he resign'd his breath; 
 With others I did hi no attend 
 
 Unto the silent house of death. 
 
 " For him I wept, for him I mourn'd, 
 
 Paid all to friendship that was due ; 
 But sadly friendship is return' d, 
 
 Thy Herman he must follow too! 
 
 Must follow to the gloomy grave, 
 
 In spite of human art or skill; 
 No pow'i on earth my life can save, 
 
 'Tis tate's unalterable will ! 
 
 " Young Sisrismund, my once dear friend. 
 
 Bur now mv persecutor foul, 
 Doth hw malevolence extend 
 
 fi'eii to the torture ot my soul. 
 
232 THE VAMPYRE. 
 
 " By night, when, wrapt in soundest sleep, 
 
 All mortals share a soft repose, 
 My soul doth dreadful vigils keep, 
 
 More keen than which hell scarcely knows. 
 
 " From the drear mansions of the tomb, 
 From the low regions of the dead, 
 
 The ghost of Sigismnnd doth roam, 
 And dreadful haunts me in my bed ! 
 
 " There, vested in infernal guise, 
 (By means to me not understood) 
 
 Close to my side the goblin lies, 
 And drinks away my vital blood ! 
 
 11 Sucks from my veins the streaming iife, 
 And drains the fountain of my heart ! 
 
 Gertrude, Gertrude ! dearest wife ! 
 Unutterable is my smart. 
 
 " When surfeited, the goblin dire, 
 With banqueting by suckled gore, 
 
 Will to his sepulchre retire, 
 
 Till night invites him forth once more. 
 
 " Then will he dreadfully return, 
 
 And from my veins life's juices drain ; 
 
 Whilst, slumb'ring, I with anguish mourn, 
 And toss with agonizing pain ! 
 
THE VAMPYRE. 
 
 " Already I'm exhausted, spent ; 
 
 His carnival is nearly o'er, 
 My soul with agony is rent, 
 
 To-morrow I shall be no more! 
 
 " But, O my .Gertrude ! dearest wife ! 
 
 The keenest pangs hath last remain'd — 
 When dead, I too shall seek thy life, 
 
 Thy blopd by Herman shall be drain'd ! 
 
 " But to avoid this horrid fate, 
 
 Soon as I'm dead and laid in earth, 
 
 Drive thro' my corpse a jav'lin straight; — 
 This shall prevent mv coming forth. 
 
 " O watch with me this last sad night, 
 Watch in your chamber here alone, 
 
 But carfully conceal the light 
 
 Until you hear my parting groan. 
 
 " Then at what time the vesper bell 
 Of yonder convent shall be toll'd, 
 
 That peal shall ring my passing knell, 
 And Herman's body shall be cold ! 
 
 " Then, and just then, thy lamp make bare* 
 The starting ray, the bursting light, 
 
 Shall from my side the goblin scare, 
 And shew him visible to sight!" 
 h2 
 
 233 
 
234 THE VAMPYRE. 
 
 The live-long night poor Gertrude sate, 
 Watch'd by her sleeping- dying lord ; 
 
 The live-long night she mourn'd her fate, 
 The object whom her soul ador'd. 
 
 Then at what time the vesper-bell 
 Of yonder convent sadly toll'd, 
 Then, then was peal'd his passing knell, 
 
 The hapless Herman he was cold 
 
 Just at that moment Gertrude drew 
 
 From 'neath her cloak the hidden light; 
 
 When, dreadful ! she beheld in view 
 The shade of Sigismund ! — sad sight! 
 
 Indignant roll'd his ireful eyes, 
 
 That gleam'd with wild horrific stare ; 
 
 And fix'd a moment with surprise, 
 Beheld aghast th' ehlight'hing glare. 
 
 His jaws cadaverous were besmear'd 
 With clotted carnage o'er and o'er, 
 
 And all his horrid whole appear'd 
 Distent, and fill'd with human gore ! 
 
 With hideous scowl the spectre fled ; 
 
 She shriek'd aloud ; — then swoon'd away I 
 The hapless Herman in his bed, 
 
 All pale, a lifeless body lay ! 
 
 
THE VAMPYRB. 235 
 
 Next day in council 'twas decreed, 
 
 (Urg'd at the instance of the state) 
 That shudd'ring nature should be freed 
 
 From pests like these ere 'twas too late. 
 
 The choir then burst the fun'ral dome 
 
 Where Sigismund was latel) laid, 
 And found him, tho' within the tomb, 
 
 Still warm as life, and undecay'd. 
 
 With blood his visage was distain'd, 
 Ensanguin'd were his frightful eyes, 
 
 Each sign of former life remain'd, 
 Save that all motionless he lies. 
 
 The corpse of Herman they contrive 
 
 To the same sepulchre to take, 
 And thro' both carcases they drive, 
 
 Deep in the earth, a sharpen'd stake ! 
 
 By this wa6 finish' d their career, 
 Thro' this no longer they can roam ; 
 
 From them their friends have nought to fear, 
 Both quiet keep the slumb'ring tomb. 
 
FAIRY TALE. 
 
 iN days of yore, when (quoth romance) 
 
 The fairy sprites were wont to dance 
 
 Around the may-pole on the green, 
 
 With Oberon and Mab their queen; 
 
 Whilst on the slender mushroom's head, 
 
 Their tiny banquet oft was spread, 
 
 With pearly dew-drops for their drink ; 
 
 In acorn cups up to the brink ; 
 
 And pigmy knights, in armour bright, 
 
 Oft gambol' d by the moon's pale light ; 
 
 Strange was their povv'r, the pranks they play'd, 
 
 With such as dar'd their haunts invade ; — 
 
 With various forms themselves they'd please, 
 
 And others cotild transform with ease; 
 
 Turn day to night, or night to day, 
 
 Make black be white, or green be grey ; 
 
 Could lengthen time, or make it short, 
 
 Just as it suited with their sport ; 
 
 Give to deformity each grace, 
 
 And frightful turn the fairest face ; 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 23? 
 
 Oft have these playful wanton elves. 
 Just purposely to please themselves, 
 Slid thro' the key-hole of the door, 
 When all within was thought secure ; 
 Sly slipt the sleeping babe away, 
 And in its place a fairy lay ! 
 
 Yet. tho' to mischief often prone, 
 This did not busy them alone ; 
 For oft the cleanly household maid 
 Their frequent bounties have repaid j 
 With rings of fair and brilliant hue, 
 Or teasters left her in her shoe; 
 But if her house was filthy kept, 
 They'd pinch the hussy as she slept : 
 And by such warning teach the jade, 
 That sluts were never better paid. 
 
 'Twas in those days of fairy reign, 
 Of which replete is Chaucer's strain, 
 That, on a summer afternoon, 
 A certain simple country loon 
 By chance came whistling o'er the lee, 
 With heart as lightsome as might be. 
 A load of oatmeal in a sack 
 The bumpkin bore upon his back ; 
 And tho' both youthful, stout and strong", 
 Yet lazily he drawl'd along ; 
 And lilting an unmeaning air, 
 Betray 'd a heart devoid of care. 
 
288 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 When near the corner of a wood, 
 By which a clay-built cottage, stood, 
 The sound of music struck his ears, 
 Which pleas'd the gaping rustic hears, 
 And, as he felt no mind for speed, 
 He stood to hear whence might proceed 
 Those sounds harmonious, which he swore 
 Excell'd whate'er he'd heard before, 
 Where'er he listens still 'tis plain 
 The hovel must the choir contain ; 
 Wherefore the boor at all adventures— 
 Sans ceremony — boldly enters, 
 And at the door his station took, - 
 Intent to take a standing look; 
 Not to go further, save invited, 
 For fear he might be ill requited, 
 And his too curious prying folly 
 A sequel find more melancholy; 
 For so impertinence, by right, 
 Both men and fairies should requite ; 
 And nothing can be reckon'd ruder, 
 Than an unmanner'd bold intruder, 
 Who'll frequently, 'thout invitation, 
 Be meddling where he's no occasion. 
 But scarce had he the threshold gain'd, 
 When eyes and ears were entertained ; 
 For, since he first beheld the light, 
 He ne'er had seen a fairer sight. 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 239 
 
 A band of fairies heav'nly fair, 
 Array'd in green with neatest care, 
 In youthful bloom, whilst ev'ry grace 
 Adorn'd each pigmy elfin's face; 
 And, as the music gaily play'd, 
 A thousand antic springs they made j 
 Now here, now there, now high, now low, 
 Now strangely quick, now gently slow; 
 Still as the minstrels chang'd, so they 
 Their movements chang'd, and danc'd away. 
 Whilst Hodge, with extasy unbounded, 
 Gaz'd on with wonder quite confounded, 
 But still suppos'd, so throng they'd been, 
 His entrance they had never seen ; 
 Nor had it ever struck his brain, 
 That these were of the elfin train, 
 But wrongly had the lout believ'd ; 
 He from the first had been perceiv'd ! 
 For these were fairies, and may be 
 Knew what he thought as well as he ; 
 And cunning had he been, 1 ween, 
 Had he stood there by them unseen. 
 But that it seems 'twas their intent 
 With him t' increase their merriment ; 
 For the^ no seeming notice took, 
 But let him peaceful keep his nook ; 
 Nem. con. determin'd that he should 
 $Und there till doomsday, if he would ; 
 
240 A JFAIRY TALE. 
 
 Whilst they their gambols still pursu'd, 
 And he with equal pleasure view'd. 
 
 But little wist he with the throng 
 That he had saunter'd there so long ; 
 For their gay pranks and music strains 
 Had so bewitch'd the gawky's brains, 
 That it ne'er enter'd Hodge's head 
 His family were wanting bread ; 
 And that he should have posted back 
 With that same flour he'd in his sack. 
 
 At length, grown weary with his station, 
 And sated quite with recreation, 
 Once more the oafling with his load 
 Slunk out, and hasten'd on the road ; 
 For 't must be known, that whilst he stopp'd 
 His burthen he had never dropp'd, 
 But, as a cursory beholder, 
 Stood bending with it on his shoulder; 
 And, so well pleas' d the boor had been, 
 With all he'd heard, wilh all he'd seen, 
 That he suppos'd, amidst the sport, 
 His dalliance there had been but short ; 
 A quarter of an hour at most— 
 But strangely he'd his reck'ning lost. 
 
 Well ; homewards Hodge in haste now hies. 
 But what strange objects meet his eyes ! 
 Chang'd was the face of all around him ; 
 Indeed, sufficient to confound him. 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 241 
 
 For ev'ry now and then he'd meet 
 Whole groups of strangers in the street ; 
 And, gaze on either side he would, 
 Long clusters of new buildings stood. 
 In fine, the whole was so much chang'd, 
 That he to all seem'd quite estrang'd ; 
 And scarcely could the bumkin keep 
 From thinking that he was asleep : 
 Indeed, what could he justly deem 
 This wond'rous change less than a dream ? 
 
 At length, with gazing", staring round, 
 His well-known cottage haply found ; 
 But louder here the uproar grew, 
 Each one he met affrighted flew ! 
 And cried, * Heav'rt shield us from all evil ! 
 That's Hodge's ghost or else the devil ! 
 " Zounds (quoth the boor.) what means this clatter? 
 Are all gone mad ! or what's the matter? 
 Why, here the people flee the road, 
 And shun me as I were a toad ! 
 Sore this must be some witch'd delusion, 
 For all around me seems confusion ; — 
 Or is it I, or they, or who, 
 That are bewitch'd ? for I don't know, 
 All things' appear transform'd I view, 
 I'm certes metamorphos'd too !" 
 
 At length, his Marg'fet, honest dame ! 
 Rous' d by th' uncommon clamour, came; 
 1 2 
 
 
 
242 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 But soon as she poor Hodge beheld, 
 
 Her aspect seem'd with terror fill'd. 
 
 She screamd aloud, and back retreating, 
 
 Endeavour' d to avoid the meeting. 
 
 But Hodge, enrag'd and quite perplex'd, 
 
 And with these strange proceedings vex'd, 
 
 Threw down his load, and, interposing, 
 
 Stopt her as she the door was closing ; 
 
 And cried, " Fie, Margaret ! what the devil 
 
 Has made you all so curs'd uncivil? 
 
 For young and old, I think, egad, 
 
 Are, rich and poor, enmasse gone mad ! 
 
 Why, wife! this all seems wond'rous strange! 
 
 What witchcraft can have wrought this change? 
 
 Why, I'm thy Hodge, Mag! dost not know me? 
 
 Now don't be foolish — but come to me!" 
 
 She shriek'd again, and faltering said, 
 " These seven long years have you been dead ! 
 The fact I recollect too well, 
 As all the neighbours round can tell," 
 " Dead !(exclaim'd Hodge,) why, what the curse 
 Can all this mean ; 'tis worse and worse ! 
 Why, sure you know 'twas but to-day 
 That to the mill I took my way, 
 To bring some meal in that there sack, 
 Which I've just tumbled from my back ; 
 I'm sure I stopt not on the road, 
 Nor ever once set down my load, 
 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 243 
 
 Save for a trice 1 stopt to view, 
 In yonder cot, a merry crew ; 
 Who, with their cap' rings and vagaries, 
 Were frisking like so many faries, 
 And then they kept their tune so duly, 
 Their music it was charming truly ; 
 And, had yourself been there to see, 
 You would have stopt as well as me; 
 For 1 protest, my dearest wife, 
 I ne'er saw th' like on't in my life. 
 But surely I ha'n't stopt so long 
 That you should set up this war-song ? 
 And all the town play hide and seek, 
 As if I'd stopt away a week " 
 
 " A week ! (quoth Marg'ret ;) by these tears, 
 You have been dead these seven long years ! 
 We know you once went to the mill, 
 For ought we know, you are there still ; 
 For since you first set out, good lack ! 
 None e'er beheld you yet come back. 
 And 'twas concluded all around 
 That you'd been murder'd, witch'd, or drown'd ; 
 And as, alas ! you ne'er return'd, 
 For you one tedious year I mourn'd, — 
 For you the widow's weeds I wore, 
 And patiently my suft" rings bore ; 
 And when I'd thus a twelvemonth tarried 
 Single for you, — again I married. 
 
244 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 And to ray second spouse have brought 
 Six chopping children, — who are thought 
 To be as stout ones, and as viewiy, 
 As any in the village, truly ! 
 
 "Married again ! (quoth Hodge) adzooks, 
 The woman's mad ! — Lord, how she looks! 
 She tn mbles too, and turns as white 
 As it 1 were some hell-born sprite; 
 For G.d's sake, Marg'ret, let me hold thee, 
 And in these longing arms enfold thee!" 
 She backwards reel'd, and, with a shriek, 
 Swoon'd, — lor she had'nt pow'r to speak. 
 
 Some neigh bums, bolder than the rest, 
 Mov'd to behold her thus distrest, 
 ResoLvd as 't.vas a work of merit, 
 At least t:> parley with the spirit ; 
 For well they knew the worst and most 
 That could be done by any ghost, 
 Was only to a tixd extent; 
 And this with ease they could prevent : 
 For, should the fiend begin to riot, 
 Him soon Mtss John had pow'r to quiet. 
 So in a phalanx gathering round, 
 With circles fortified their ground ; 
 And, muttering o'er their pater-nosters, 
 Slowly advanc'd in various postures. 
 But Hodge, not waiting salutation, 
 Thus spoke the trembling congregation : 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 246 
 
 " Good neighbours, now, for God's sake ! say, 
 
 What is your meaning! tell me pray, 
 
 Are you all mad, as you appear, 
 
 Or are you but dispos'd to jeer 
 
 And tamper me with ridicule, 
 
 Because you think I am a fool?" 
 
 Stop there, good ghost ! (said one most gravely) 
 
 No doubt we'll answer thee right bravely. 
 
 But first to answer us prepare, 
 
 Quite rational our questions are; 
 
 Say why, now sev'n long years are past, 
 
 Hath the cold grave releas'd at last 
 
 Thy pent up spirit, thus to range 
 
 To frighten us in form most strange, 
 
 And carry terror and dismay 
 
 Ev'n in the very face of day ? 
 
 Ghosts were of yore, we know, permitted 
 
 To roam at midnight, and have quitted 
 
 Their sepulchres, and in those times 
 
 Did penance for their former crimes ; 
 
 But when sev'n years thou hast laid quiet, 
 
 Now to come here and make a riot 
 
 Is what we cannot understand, 
 
 For which thy reasons we demand; 
 
 Moreover thus to fright thy wife, 
 
 Who lovd thee in thy nat'ral life 
 
 As well as any woman could do, 
 
 Is what no Christian spirit should do. 
 
246 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 'Tis true, she has again got married ; 
 But then she for a twelvemonth tarried ; 
 Which seems a reasonable season, 
 For any thing- in common reason." 
 
 "Why, zounds! (quoth Hodge) d'ye all agree 
 To make a simpleton of me ? 
 Thus, proving what my wife hath said, 
 Spite of my senses swear I'm dead! 
 I know I've oft been banter'd duly, 
 But this is too egregious truly ; 
 And, let me tell you, and my wife, 
 I am not dead, upon my life !" 
 
 " Not dead ! (exclaim'd the wond'ring train) 
 Then you must be bewitch'd, 'tis plain. 
 'Tis just sev'n years, this very day, 
 Since to the mill you took your way ; 
 And from that moment to this hour, 
 You never have been seen before ! 
 'Tis now quite evident, the crew 
 You stepp'd into the cot to view, 
 Who pleas'd you so with their vagaries, 
 Have been a set of spiteful fairies." 
 " Nay, then, (quoth Hodge) the thing's unriddl'd) 
 For sev'n long years they danc'd and fiddl'd, 
 And mine the folly, not the crime, 
 Was looking at them all the time. 
 I find I've been a stupid eif ; — 
 Now let me haste and hang myself." 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 247 
 
 "Just as you please for that, 1 ' (quoth they) 
 But Hodge contriv'd another way ; — 
 Disliking death and single life, 
 He went and sought another wife. 
 
THE SWORD. 
 
 JL AIR shone the moon o'er Brougham's* 
 tow'rs, 
 And fair on Emmont's streams, 
 And fair down Eden's fertile vale, 
 Far shone its length'ning beams ; 
 
 When Lady Eleanor arose, 
 
 And listless left her bed ; 
 For peace her pillow had forsook, 
 
 And slumber from her fled. 
 
 And she has climb'd the highest tow'r, 
 
 And trac'd the turrets round ; 
 And she has sigh'd, and she has wept, 
 
 But ease has no where found. 
 
 * Brougham Castle, which stands on the borders of Westmoreland 
 near the banks of the river Emmont, and about two miles from Penrith, 
 is a place with whose history I am perfectly unacquainted ; only that I 
 know at present it is one of the most spacious — and perhaps one of the 
 most magnificent — ruins in the north of England. 
 
THE SWORD. 249 
 
 "Ah, me ! (she said) was e'er before 
 
 So sad forlorn a wife, 
 For tho' I am Lord Herbert's spouse, 
 
 1 lead a widow'd life. 
 
 " Twelve tedious months are past and gons 
 
 Since last he left these arms ; 
 O'er distant shores he wins afar, 
 
 'Midst danger and alarms. 
 
 "Ye gentle gales, that round me blow, 
 
 Augmented by my sighs; 
 Oh ! gently waft him home again 
 
 To cheer these longing eyes. 
 
 "For here, with anxious sad distress, 
 
 My nights are pass'd away ; 
 And cheerless solitude and grief 
 
 Attend me thro' the day. 
 
 But, if the morning dawn were come, 
 
 Full quickly would 1 ride 
 To the weird woman, where she dwells 
 
 Close by the Black Fell* side. 
 
 * Part of a chain of mountains running- on the jcast of Cumberland. 
 K I 
 
 
250 THE SWORD. 
 
 " There with her will I counsel take, 
 Her forecast's fam'd on far, 
 
 To know when he Lord Herbert shall 
 Forsake the cruel war." 
 
 Lord Herbert he on Syria's shores, 
 With martial squadrons sped, 
 
 With princely Edward to the fight 
 The Christian forces led. 
 
 Much by his prince approv'd was he, 
 Much by his peers renown'd ; 
 
 For, thro' the host of Christian knights, 
 A braver was not found. 
 
 Destruction follow'd where he led, 
 And mark d his furious course ; 
 
 Nor could the Saracen's whole pow'r 
 Check his resistless force. 
 
 Up with the light rose Eleanor; 
 
 She's ta'en the swiftest steed, 
 And quickly she to Black Fell side 
 
 Has posted wijth all speed. 
 
 And soon she's gain'd the fated place, 
 And soon an entrance found ; 
 
 And the weird woman soon has met* 
 For forecast far renown'd. 
 
THE SWORD. 261 
 
 " Lady, say, (the beldam cried) 
 
 What brings you here so soon ?" 
 u I come (dame Eleanor replied) 
 
 From you to beg a boon ; 
 
 " Which you must grant ere I depart, 
 
 Or else must go with me ; 
 And as your bodings shall betide, 
 
 So shall your guerdon be." 
 
 " What would'st thou have, sweet lady fair ? 
 
 What would'st thou understand ? 
 For, be assur'd, what I can do 
 
 Thou freely may'st command." 
 
 " My husband, brave Lord Herbert, he 
 
 Now wins on Syria's plains ; 
 Fain would I know his plight, and how 
 
 This warfare he sustains." 
 
 " Then back to Brougham you must hie, 
 
 (Repli'd the wither' d crone) 
 And all that you would learn, shall there 
 
 To you be fully known. - 
 
 " Spur on your palfrey with all speed, 
 
 Nor stop, r.or make delay ; 
 I shall be there as soon as you, 
 
 So, Lady, post away." 
 
252 THE SWORD. 
 
 Now Lady Eleanor, thus warn'd, 
 Has homeward turh'd her steed ; 
 
 O'er hill and dale, o'er bog- and bourne, 
 To Brougham with all speed. 
 
 And when she pass'd the castle-moat, 
 
 Who readier was to wait 
 Than the weird woman of Black Fell side, 
 
 All at the castle-gate 
 
 And she has lighted from her steed, 
 
 And enter'd by the hall ; 
 And she has to the chamber pass'd, 
 
 The sybil too withal. 
 
 And she has bolted fist the door 
 
 All with a silver pin, 
 That none without might hear or see, 
 
 And no one might come in. 
 
 "And now, 1'!! tell thee, Lady fair, 
 (The caitiff said with speed) 
 
 What things must first be done, ere we 
 Can with our spell proceed. 
 
 " And £rst with vinegar and meal 
 Yourself must knead a cake, 
 
 Which on the embers must be laid, 
 That it may slowly bake. 
 
THE SWORD. 26$ 
 
 " Then hie to some south-running stream, 
 
 Of no man ask you leave, 
 But take your shift, and in the brook 
 
 There wash well the left sleeve,* 
 
 " Then haste you back and hang the same 
 
 Before the fire to dry ; 
 What of the process yet remains, 
 
 We'll finish by and by. 
 
 " Wait till the castle bell strikes One, 
 
 Nor dash'd nor daunted be, 
 For be assur'd that at that hour 
 
 Lord Herbert you shall see !" 
 
 Slow wind their way the tedious hours, 
 
 Slow pass'd the parting day ; 
 And anxious grew dame Eleanor 
 
 At midnight's tardy stay. 
 
 The magic cake, the new-wash'd shift, 
 
 Were both before the fire j 
 Whilst the weird woman mutt'ring sat 
 
 Her incantations dire. 
 
 * See Bum's " Hallo E W 
 
254 THE SWORD. 
 
 At length the castle- bell toll'd One ! 
 
 The stately mansion shook ; 
 The doors were burst ! — Lord Herbert stood 
 
 With stern revengeful look. 
 
 In arms accoutred cap-a-pee, 
 With sword and buckler bright; 
 
 And gaily harness'd, as became 
 A gallant Christian knight. 
 
 And he has ta'en and turn'd the cake, 
 
 That on the embers burn'd, 
 And eke the shift before the hearth 
 
 As carefully has turn'd. 
 
 Then up and crew the shrill-voic'd cock, 
 
 The sable and the grey, 
 Lord Herbert rush'd forth from the hall, 
 
 Nor longer might he stay. 
 
 But, as with hasty stride he flew 
 
 Forth at the chamber-door, 
 Lord Herbert in his hurry dropp'd 
 
 His sword upon the floor. 
 
 And sythe was heard a hollow groan, 
 
 And eke a mournful sigh ; 
 The lady she took up the sword, 
 
 And careful put it by. 
 
TRE SWORD. 255 
 
 But sadly sank the Lady's heart 
 
 Now that tne shade was gone; 
 And sadly seeoa'd she to repent 
 
 Tiie deed that she had done. 
 
 Two ling-'ring, anxious, irksome years, 
 
 A widow'd bride she mourn* d ; 
 At length Lord Herbert with the Prince 
 
 And England's pow'rs return'd. 
 
 Straight to the hall the baron flew, 
 
 Nor made he stop or stay ; 
 And Lady Eleanor, I ween, 
 
 Was joyful on that day. 
 
 The costliest banquet was prepar'd, 
 
 The minstrels shook the hall, 
 The copious bowl was push'd around, 
 
 And mirth pervaded all. 
 
 For all to see the Lord's return, 
 
 .Express' d unfeign'd delight, 
 Whilst he resolv'd that ev'ry heart 
 
 Should feel no care that night. 
 
 It chanc'd that on a future day, 
 
 Lord Herbert, ranging round 
 The various chambers of the dome; 
 
 His sword, ill-fated, found ! 
 
253 THE SWORD. 
 
 With horror he the weapon view'd. 
 
 With rage and wild surprise ; 
 For well he knew^he luckless blade, 
 
 Yet scarce could trust his eyes. 
 
 But swift he from the chamber hies, 
 
 The faulchion in his hand, 
 And of fair Lady Eleanor 
 
 Thus sternly does demand : 
 
 "Where got'st thou that fair sword, Lady ? 
 
 Now tell me, on thy word ; 
 From what young- knight, or warrior wight, 
 
 Dame, got'st thou that fair sword ?'* 
 
 " Why sternly dost thou thus enquire, 
 
 Lord Herbert, this from me ? 
 Within your armoury, good sooth, 
 
 Great store of swords there be. 
 
 " Swords are not things for women's use; 
 
 Then why this question, say ? 
 You look most angrily, my lord 
 
 What is the reason, pray !" 
 
 "Where got'st thou that fair sword, Lady ? 
 
 Now tell me, on thy word ; 
 From what young knight, or warrior wight, 
 
 Dame, got'st thou that fair sword ?" 
 
THE SWORD. 257 
 
 " My Lord, if I must say the truth, 
 And tell you, on my word, 
 
 I almost durst be bound to swear 
 It is my father's sword." 
 
 II No, no ; 'tis not Lord Osrick's sword, 
 
 I know that blade too well ; 
 
 Thou shalt not thus prevaricate, 
 
 But truth be forc'd to tell. 
 
 " Doth it become Lord Herbert's wife 
 
 To tamper him with lies ? 
 Or doth it suit Lord Herbert's wife 
 
 His menace to despise ? 
 
 " Where got'st thou that fair sword, Lady ? 
 
 Now tell me, on thy word ; 
 From what young knight or warrior wight T 
 
 Dame, got'st thou that fair sword?" 
 
 Then down upon her bended knees 
 
 Dame Eleanor did fall; 
 And, barring parley or disguise, 
 
 The Lady told him all. 
 
 And loud did she for mercy call, 
 
 And smote her breast full sore ; 
 Urg'd female curiosity, 
 
 But her affection more. 
 1,2 
 
258 THU SWOltD. 
 
 " Wretch that thou art! (Lord Herbert said,) 
 
 I knew the sword was mine ! 
 Death is too slight a punishment 
 
 For such a fault as thine : 
 
 " When press'd by much superior force, 
 
 And sinking 'midst the fight, 
 You from my body tore my soul, 
 
 To glut your foolish sight! 
 
 " By witchcraft too ! — detested thought ! 
 
 Unpardon'd is the deed ! 
 Mercy could not extend to thee, 
 
 Tho' angels' tongues should plead. 
 
 " Not all the torments hell contains, 
 
 That most the damn'd dismay, 
 Can parallel the pangs I felt 
 
 On that unhappy day ! 
 
 " Whirl'd like a thunderbolt along, 
 
 O'er ocean, earth, and air, 
 O'er craggy steeps, and bri'ry breaks, 
 
 To rest I knew not where. 
 
 *' Whilst all the time my body lay 
 
 On earth, devoid of breath ! 
 And all around the battle press'd. 
 
 And threaten d certain death. 
 
THE SWORD, 2*9 
 
 " 'Tvvas there on first recov'ring life, 
 
 I vow'd, on knightly word, 
 That they should surely lose their lives 
 
 With whom I found the sword ! 
 
 *' And should I break my plighted oath ? 
 
 Myself thus doubly curse ? 
 When, on some future day, perhaps, 
 
 Thy spells might use me worse. 
 
 " No, 'tis resolv'd — thy doom is pass'd ! 
 
 No suit can e'er succeed ; 
 Revenge impels me to the act, 
 
 Nor justice blames the deed. 
 
 " Then die !"-— so said, the fatal blade 
 Deep-pierc'd the shrieking wife ! 
 
 She fell ! — and at her husband's feet 
 Surrender' d up her life ! 
 
 
 
THE 
 
 EARTH KING. 
 
 j^LRISE, Lord Aymer, arm with speed, 
 Thy country doth thy aid demand ; 
 The hostile Scots have pass'd the Tweed, 
 And ravage fair Northumberland/' 
 
 " Whence com'st thou, haughty herald, say. 
 With thy proud messages to me? 
 
 Such mandates I can ne er obey, 
 Whoe'er the summoner may be. 
 
 " What tho' all Scotland be in arms, 
 Tho' Douglas marshal out the way. 
 
 And shake the borders with alarms, 
 Need I to mingle in the fray ? 
 
 " In this embattled tower secure, 
 I mock the siege — assault defy ; 
 
 The length'ning war I can endure, 
 Unreach'd by its calamity. 
 
THE EARTH KING. 261 
 
 * Then hence, proud herald ! haste, return ! 
 
 And say to him that sent thee here, 
 That I the idle summons spurn, 
 
 Nor aught his future anger fear." 
 
 " Arise, Lord Aymer, arm with speed ! 
 
 Thy country doth thy aid demand ; 
 The hostile Scots have pass'd the Tweed, 
 
 And ravage fair Northumberland ! 
 
 " 'Tis the great Boiingbroke that sends, 
 
 By me, this message from afar ; 
 For he hath summon'd all his friends 
 
 To aid him in the cruel war." 
 
 f* This answer to thy master bring j 
 That I too long have borne his yoke ; 
 
 And tell proud Henry, faithless king ! 
 My fealty I here revoke. 
 
 
 " Is not the flower of all the land, 
 The fair, the gallant Hotspur slain ? 
 
 He was my liege !— and, by this hand, 
 1 ne'er am Henry's friend again ! 
 
 " Tho' all the pow'rs of Scotland rise, 
 With Denmark and with Norway join'd ; 
 
 Yet know, the mandate I despise 
 Of princes faithjess and unkind ! 
 
262 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 " Once more tell Bolingbroke from me. 
 
 That all allegiance I forego ; 
 And whatsoe'er his fortunes be, 
 
 Lord Aymer is henceforth his foe!" 
 
 " Arise, Lord Aymer, arm with speed ! 
 
 Thy country doth thy aid demand; 
 The hostile Scots have pass'd the Tweed, 
 
 And ravage fair Northumberland. 
 
 " Three times, Lprd Aymer, have I said 
 Arise, and arm thy pow'rs with speed ; 
 
 Three times the legal summons made, 
 And yet thou luckless tak'st no heed. 
 
 "It is great Bolingbroke's command— r- 
 Great Bolingbroke thy rightful lord ! 
 
 Then why thus foolishly withstand 
 A mighty monarch's sov'reign word!'* 
 
 "Tf he, the king of all the earth, 
 Should bid me arm on his pretence, 
 
 I would not lead my people forth 
 To fight in Bolingbroke's defence ! 
 
 " Then get thee home, proud herald, go 
 And tell thy king my firm intent ; 
 
 That service I do others owe, 
 
 Which once to him was only meant " 
 
THE EARTH KING. 263 
 
 The messenger departed straight 
 
 To Henry's court, the news to bring; 
 
 Where he doth faithfully relate 
 Lord Aymer's answer to the king. 
 
 lt Now, foul befal the traitor vile! 
 
 (King Henry said) it grieves me sore ; 
 By Grace ! 'tis but a little while, 
 
 And he, Lord Aymer, is no more!" 
 
 Lord Aymer with the twilight rose, 
 
 And listless left his weary bed ; 
 For there he might not find repose, 
 
 The herald's words so fill'd his head. 
 
 Full well King Henry's pow'r he knew, 
 
 As well he knew his deadly rage ; 
 That where it menac'd to pursue, 
 
 No motive could its force assuage. 
 
 He's ta'en a charger from the stall, 
 
 Caparison'd all gaily bright; 
 And he has pass'd the outer hall 
 
 Before the morning it was light. 
 
 Along the winding banks of Tyne 
 
 He onward sped his wistless way ; 
 *« What means this boding heart of mine ? 
 
 What means this heaviness to-day ?" 
 
264 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 And he's look'd east, and he's look'd west, 
 And he's look'd o'er the forest green, 
 
 And he's o'er moss and moorland press'd, 
 But man nor woman has he seen; 
 
 Till turning near the mountain's side, 
 Lord Aymer saw, with fix'd surprise, 
 
 A yawning cavern open wide, 
 
 And from the gulph strange figures rise ! 
 
 High on a splendid chariot rais'd, 
 One sat that like a monarch seem'd, 
 
 Around him fulgent meteors blaz'd, 
 
 And from his eyes th' light'ning beam'd. 
 
 Volcanic vapours from his maw 
 He blew with pestilential breath : 
 
 Lord Aymer stood transfix'd with awe, 
 Expectant of immediate death. 
 
 His head was of the jasper bright, 
 His temples glist'ning to behold, 
 
 His ruby eyes shone like the light, 
 
 His locks were like the threads of gold. 
 
 His beard was like the sparkling glass, 
 An iron strength his neck confess'd ; 
 
 His arms and shoulders were of brass, 
 And polish'd marble was his breast. 
 
THE EARTH KING. 2(3-5 
 
 His legs and thighs, of giant size, 
 
 A strange amalgama display'd ; 
 His ample hands, and feet likewise, 
 
 Of hardest, brightest steel were made! 
 
 A mantle of asbestos bright 
 
 Was o'er his ample shoulders flung ; 
 
 While pendant, flashing like the light, 
 Close to his side the faulchion hung. 
 
 A groupe of spectres by his side 
 
 Attended, but with various mein ; 
 Some bore their crests with haughty pride, 
 
 Some, writh'd with agony, are seen. 
 
 Lord Aymerstood with deadly fright, 
 
 His heart a thousand horrors fill'd : 
 For sure so wonderful a sight, 
 
 His eyes, till now, had ne'er beheld. 
 
 When onward whirling with his car, 
 That shook the earth, the spectre said, 
 
 With voice harsh bellowing from afar, 
 " Lord Aymer need not be dismay'd! 
 
 " Full well I know thy haughty soul, 
 
 Full well I know thy manly pride, 
 That scorns all human basecontroul, 
 
 And hath all earth-born pow'r defied, 
 m2 
 
266 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 "Know, I am King- of all the Earth; 
 
 Nay, more, my empire is the sea! 
 Yet have I purposely rode forth, 
 
 Lord Aymer, to confer with thee. 
 
 " What is proud Bolingbroke, that he, 
 Usurper- like, thus lifts his hand, 
 
 To think that noble souls like thee 
 Would basely crouch at his command ? 
 
 *' Are not both he and all the rest 
 
 Of monarchs, that o'er mortals sway, 
 
 Mere vassals to my high behest, 
 And bound my summons to obey ? 
 
 " What are the most illustrious kings ? — 
 
 Ephemerons but of an hour ! 
 Mere reptiles ! — momentary things ! 
 
 All tributary to my pow'r, 
 
 " Since time commenc'd, my throne has stood 
 
 Uninterrupted been my reign ; 
 No bold insurgent e'er thought good, 
 
 As yet, to grasp at my domain. 
 
 M Millions of millions, at my call 
 Obedient, my commands attend ! 
 
 Ev'n mightiest princes prostrate fall 
 When I the mightier summons send ! 
 
THE EARTH KING. 267 
 
 « And yet throughout my vast domain 
 
 No mal-contended traitors be; 
 No factions shake my peaceful reign, 
 
 No subject wishes to be free! 
 
 " But here equality prevails, 
 
 Such as no other state can boast, 
 And birth or title nought avails, 
 
 Where ev'n distinction's self is lost. 
 
 " Then come, Lord Aymer, come with me, 
 
 The wonders of my realm survey ; 
 I pledge myself no harm to thee 
 
 Shall happen in the devious way. 
 
 " What tho' destructive seems my breath, 
 Tho' light'nings in my eyes appear, 
 
 Tho' trembling mortals call me Death, 
 Lord Aymer, thou hast nought to fear. 
 
 " Ne'er damp thy manly fire with dread, 
 
 Ne'er fill thy bosom with alarm; 
 For know that, whilst thou hast a head, 
 
 Thou'rt perfectly secure from harm." 
 
 So said — high on the lofty seat, 
 
 The Earth King he Lord Aymer plac'd; 
 
 And, as the pinion'd light'ning fleet, 
 Their journey subterine retrac'd. 
 
268 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 Swift as the air, the eagle's wing", 
 Or driving bark the billow cleaves, 
 
 So yields the earth to the Earth King, 
 And wide and easy entrance leaves. 
 
 Earth's inmost secrets lay disclos'd, 
 The sparkling gem, the pond'rous ore, 
 
 A thousand splendours fair expos'd 
 To mortal ken, unknown before. 
 
 Here mighty caverns, long conceai'd, 
 Of gnomes and demons' drear abodes, 
 
 Are to Lord Aymer now reveal'd. 
 With all the world of antipodes. 
 
 Extensive regions, deep and drear, 
 With habitants as strange, they view, 
 
 By mortals never thought of here, 
 
 Whose names geographers ne'er knew. 
 
 Here the vast fountains of the deep 
 Elab'rate from the centre play ; 
 
 And, like the heart, their motions keep 
 Of flux and reflux night and day. 
 
 There from the inmost depths of hell 
 The dire volcanic furnace gleams, 
 
 Where sufFring fiends for ever yell 
 In liquid flames and burning streams. 
 
THE EARTH KING. 269 
 
 At length the central dome they gain, 
 
 Where his vast court the .Earth King held; 
 
 But who those wonders can explain, 
 Which all description far excell'd ? 
 
 The dome was concave, like a sphere, 
 
 The shell of adamant was made ; 
 And what to mortals happens here, 
 
 Was there most perfectly display'd. 
 
 " Behold my ministers around 
 
 (The monarch said) obedient stand; 
 
 See how in rev'rence profound 
 
 They wait to do my high command. 
 
 " They various offices perform : 
 
 One hurls the light'ning thro' the air ; 
 
 One manages the billowing storm, 
 And scatters ruin and despair. 
 
 " A third the inundation tends, 
 
 Directs the deluge in its sweep, 
 Or from its base the mountain rends, 
 
 And hurls it headlong to the deep ! 
 
 ** The earthquakes are another's care, 
 
 The world convulses in his hand ; 
 Whilst some the pestilence prepare, 
 
 And breathe destruction o'er the land. 
 
270 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 " There Famine sits with meagre face, 
 With Luxury, who more destroys 
 
 Than all the rest of mortal race, 
 As he more winning arts employs." 
 
 " Here all the ills (Lord Aymer cried) 
 I've seen, that thro' creation rage ; 
 
 Save one, I think I have not spied, 
 A far fam'd evil, call'd Old Age." 
 
 " Old age (the King of Terrors said) 
 Has lately on an errand been ; 
 
 And, so diminish' d is his trade, 
 He's very seldom to be seen. 
 
 " There was a time when Age alone 
 Was the supporter of my realm ; 
 
 But now he is but seldom known 
 Since Luxury has ta'en the helm." 
 
 " But what are those (Lord Aymer said) 
 That toil so hard behind that screen 5 
 
 They are conceal'd, as tho' their trade 
 Was secret, and might not be seen." 
 
 " Those are the Destinies, (said he) 
 The Fates that rule the outer world, 
 
 Their labours may no mortal see 
 Till I the curtain first have furl'd," 
 
THE EARTH KING. 271 
 
 " But listen ! (said the splendent king) 
 
 Hark to the Sisters there within ; 
 Hark to the chorus that they sing- — 
 
 It is the thread of life they spin." 
 
 41 Thrice hail to thee, Lord Aymer, hail ! 
 
 Well hast thou on thy journey sped ; 
 No pow'r against thee shall prevail, 
 
 So long as thou shalt wear thy head.'* 
 
 " What mean you by your mystic song ? 
 
 You speak equivocal and vain; 
 That may be short, or may be long ; 
 
 Therefore your promises explain." 
 
 " Arise, Lord Aymer ! arm with speed, 
 
 Thy own occasions most demand ; 
 Arise ! and haste beyond the Tweed, 
 
 Nor linger in Northumberland." 
 
 Swift as an eagle thro' the air, 
 
 The Earth King has Lord Aymer ta'en v 
 
 Unto the place they met, and there 
 Has brought and set him down again. 
 
 But, ah ! how deadly pale he grew ; 
 
 His body shook, cold ran his blood ; 
 He'd seen the Earth King, and he knew 
 
 The meeting boded him no good. 
 
272 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 " And he has spurr'd his mettled steed, 
 And homeward to his castle sped, 
 
 And he has said his pray'rs and creed, 
 And heart sick has he sought his bed. 
 
 " Why looks my noble Lord so pale ! 
 
 (Said Lady Agnes) well-a-day! 
 What can the brave Lord Aymer ail, 
 
 Or what disturbs thy spirit say ?" 
 
 " Ah ! Lady, I am sick with woe, 
 
 Sunk is my heart — cold runs my blood ! 
 
 I've seen the Earth King, and I know 
 The meeting bodes to me no good." 
 
 All night he tumbled in his bed, 
 His pillow lent him no repose; 
 
 The Earth King still ran in his head, 
 And early in the dawn he rose. 
 
 Fair mounted on his gelding grey, 
 Lord Aymer wends to take the air, 
 
 To try among the woodlands gay, 
 By exercise to banish care. 
 
 But as across the verdant sward, 
 
 With ruthless course he rang'd along, 
 
 Still in his ears he thought he heard 
 The fatal Sisters' mystic song. 
 
THE EARTH KING. 27 iJ 
 
 And as he rode athwart the hill, 
 
 There four dumb magpies left the wood ; 
 
 And as he went across the rill, 
 
 His nose gush'd out three drops of blood. 
 
 And he's look'd east, and he's look'd west, 
 Aud he's look'd o'er the forest green ; 
 
 And he's thro' moss and moorland press'd, 
 But man nor woman hi th he seen ; 
 
 Till turning near the mountain side, 
 Where the Earth King before met he, 
 
 A troop of horsemen he espied 
 Come riding furious o'er the lee. 
 
 "Yield thee! Lord Aymer, (one exclaim'd;) 
 Yield thee, proud lord, or thou art dead! 
 
 For foulest treason art thou blam'd, 
 And forfeit is, by law, thy head !" 
 
 Lord Aymer's face grew deadly pale ; 
 
 He thought on what the Sisters said; 
 "No pow'r against thee shall prevail 
 
 So long a* thou shalt wear thy head !" 
 
 " O gentle guards, a moment stay, 
 
 Attend me to my. castle-door, 
 To bid my lady one good-day, 
 
 Ere I depart for evermore." 
 N 2 
 
274 THE EARTH KING. 
 
 And they have ta'en him to the hall, 
 Where was a melting sight to view ; 
 
 His lady, children, servants, all 
 A weeping out their sad adieu ! 
 
 " Ah, woe is me! (Dame Agnes cried,) 
 That I should live to see this day ; 
 
 Should live to see Northumbrian pride 
 To death thus basely dragg'd away!'* 
 
 Lord Aymer he was sick with grief, 
 Affliction's tears bedew'd his cheek ; 
 
 But how should he bestow relief 
 Whose heart itself was like to break ? 
 
 At length they leave this scene of woe, 
 And for their journey all prepare ; 
 
 The cavalcade, all sadly slow, 
 
 Lord Aymer guards with watchful care. 
 
 And as the troops, with pitying sighs, 
 Slow down the hill all mournful wind, 
 
 Lord Aymer he, with streaming eyes, 
 Cast many a ling'ring look behind. 
 
 ** Farewell, ye scenes of past delight ! 
 
 This separation wounds me sore ; 
 No more your charms shall glad my sight, — 
 
 Farewell ! I ne'er shall see you more !" 
 
THE EARTH KING. 27$ 
 
 And as thro' ev'ry town they pass, 
 
 The tears they fell from many an eye j 
 
 The people cried — " What pity 'twas 
 So fair a Lord should basely die !" 
 
 As near to London town they draw, 
 With fear Lord Aymer's body shook, 
 
 But when the fatal block he saw, 
 All fortitude his soul forsook. 
 
 There, with infernal splendour dress'd, 
 The fierce Earth King- once more beheld ; 
 
 The object quite unmann'd his breast, 
 And all his soul with horror filfd. 
 
 " Lord Aymer, thou shalt lodge with me 
 This night! (the hideous spectre said) 
 
 The song the Sisters sung to thee, 
 
 Taught thee no caution for thy head !" 
 
 He basely to the block was led ; 
 
 The pensive crowd was standing by ; 
 A solemn gloom the whole o'erspread, 
 
 And tears were shed from many an eye ! 
 
 The fatal axe is rais'd on high, 
 
 The blow unerring swift descends ! 
 Thus traitors commonly must die ; 
 
 And thus Lord Aymer's story ends. 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 J_jORD Baldwin rose at early dawn, 
 And spurr'd his courser o'er the lawn, 
 
 To join the eager chase; 
 His onward way the Baron took, 
 Along the banks of Caldew's brook ; 
 
 But with no tardy pace. 
 
 The devious windings he pursued, 
 
 Till Warnell's tow'ring heights he view'dj 
 
 With forests mantled o'er. 
 Here he resolv'd his sports to take, 
 And from the close embow'ring brake 
 
 To drive the brindled boar. 
 ■ 
 
 Full sweetly smil'd the op'ning morn, 
 Full sweetly blew the echoing horn, . 
 
 The landscape bloom'd around ; 
 The baying hounds, with op'ning throats, 
 Return'd the hu.itsman's clam'rous notes; 
 
 The hills the whole resound. 
 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 277 
 
 Lord Baldwin spiirr'd his mettled steed, 
 To join the party with all speed, 
 
 Devoid of vulgar fear : 
 Nor dimpling streams, nor swampv fen, 
 Nor tow'ring cliff, nor headlong glen, 
 
 Could check his bold career. 
 
 But as he turn'd the skirting wood, 
 Close by the margin of the flood, 
 
 A female form he spied. 
 Her features shone divinely fair; 
 Angelic seem'd the damsel's air, 
 
 As down the dale she hied. 
 
 Her eyes were of the heav'nly bright, 
 Her robes were of the purest white, 
 
 Her hair like threads of gold : 
 The fairest flow'r that ever grew 
 Might blush at her superior hue, 
 
 All lovely to behold ! 
 
 Lord Baldwin sudden stopp'd his horse, 
 Forgetful of his promis'd course, 
 
 To ask the damsel's name ; 
 
 For in his life, the Baron swore, 
 
 He ne'er as yet had seen before, 
 
 By far, so fair a dame. 
 
278 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 The damsel she made no reply, 
 But bashfully seem'd hasting- by, 
 
 Along the winding way ; 
 "Nay, by my sooth! (Lord Baldwin said,) 
 You pass not thus my lovely maid — 
 
 A moment you must stay." 
 
 So said, dismounting from his steed, 
 He onward rush'd with fiery speed 
 
 To seize the beauteous fair ! 
 But, nimble as the bird of chase, 
 She springs and shuns his fierce embrace- 
 He clasps the yielding air. 
 
 * Fair damsel say, why these alarms ; 
 Why thus affrighted shun my arms?" 
 
 The baffled Baron said ; 
 I swear by all yon heav'ns above, 
 So fix'd, so ceaseless is my love, 
 
 Thou need'st not be afraid. 
 
 " Then, damsel, doff thy foolish fear, 
 My declaration deign to hear, 
 
 Nor thus with panic start : 
 I swear that thou shalt be my bride, 
 If thou with this art satisfied, 
 
 And mistress of my heart." 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 279 
 
 " Lord Baldwin, (said the lovely dame,) 
 Right well I know thy rank, thy name, 
 
 Tho' I'm to thee unknown ; 
 But how shall I thy tale believe, 
 So long accustom'd to deceive, 
 
 To perfidy so prone? 
 
 M Since Adelaide, thy once-lor'd wife. 
 Forsook this transitory life, 
 
 Has not, within thy dome, 
 Fair Emma been, much injur'd maid, 
 By faithless promises betray'd, 
 
 From honour arid from home? 
 
 ' How often has she heard you swear 
 Your love to her was all sincere ! 
 
 How long has she believ'd ! 
 Then say, Lord Baldwin, how can T 
 On these your promises rely, 
 
 Which her' have so deceiv'd ? 
 
 " And say> were I your wedded wife, 
 Could I submit to live in strife 
 
 With her, a rival there ? 
 Or rather you, Lord Baldwin, say, 
 Could you remorseless turn away 
 
 The hapless injur'd fair ?" 
 
280 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 "Yes, by my. sooth! (Lord Baldwin said,) 
 I promise thee, most beauteous maid, 
 
 Upon my knigUly word ; 
 Young Emma!— I U discharge the fair, 
 No rival shall inhabit there, 
 
 - That discord can afford. *y 
 
 "But say, (said he,) most lovely dame, 
 What is your family, your name? 
 
 Of these I wish to know ; 
 If ought like this you ask of me, 
 My answer should be frank and free ;— 
 
 As much to me you owe." 
 
 "No, no! (the. lovely damsel cried,) 
 Until I am thy wedded bride, 
 
 That obligation wants ; 
 A poor unskilful girl is she, 
 Who, while she holds, her liberty, 
 
 Each ask'dfor favour grants. 
 
 " Believe me, on my plighted word, 
 That, tho' thou art a titled lord 
 
 Of most illustrious Jine, 
 Yet I a pedigree can shew, 
 That ev'n ambition would allow 
 
 As eminent as thine. 1 ' 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 281 
 
 "But why, (Lord Baldwin said) sweetheart, 
 Why should not I, before we part, 
 
 Enjoy the fond embrace ?" 
 "No, no, (said she) some other time, 
 At present it would be a crime; — 
 
 This is no proper place." 
 
 " But tell me when and where (said he) 
 Shall our next happy meeting be? 
 
 Forsooth, my lovely fair! 
 I promise, by the Holy Rood ! 
 Our nuptial contract to conclude 
 
 Demurless then and there.'* 
 
 41 III would it suit me to be seen 
 To walk with you the forest green, 
 
 In vulgar slander's spite ; 
 But, if my councils you regard, 
 I'll meet you in yon lone church yard, 
 
 At twelve o'clock at night. 
 
 " Beneath the solitary yew, 
 
 Close screen'd from each observer's view, 
 
 Free converse we may hold ; 
 What curious passenger would dare 
 To interrupt our meeting there ? — 
 
 Not one would be so bold." 
 o2 
 
282 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 " Thanks for the terms that you propose, 
 (Lord Baldwin said) my beauteous rose! 
 
 The meeting suits me well : 
 In yon church-yard, beneath the yew, 
 Conceal'd from each observer's view, 
 
 As midnight strikes the bell." 
 
 " Yes ! at that hour, (replied the fair) 
 That very place, just then and there, 
 
 No better could be found ; 
 But how shall I be sure that you 
 To this appointment will be true, 
 
 By no engagement bound." 
 
 " Love, (answer'd he) with him that loves, 
 A stronger obligation proves, 
 
 Than protestations are ; 
 And could my fair one once dispute 
 The truth, the ardour of my suit, 
 
 'Twould drive me to despair. 
 
 11 Here on my bended knee I vow, 
 No woman else on earth but you 
 
 Shall share my changeless love ! 
 Fair Lady ! if thou wilt be mine, 
 Body and soul I will be thine, 
 
 As time shall better prove." 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 283 
 
 " Enough ! (the lovely Lady cried) 
 Lord Baldwin, I am satisfied ; 
 
 Nor fortune shall us sever ; 
 Here do I swear, that I am thine, 
 Body and soul thou shalt be mine, 
 
 For ever, and for ever !" 
 
 Thus said, swift o'er the winding brook, 
 Her homeward way the damsel took, 
 
 Nor waited his reply ; 
 He joins the chase with double glee, 
 (I ween a well pleas'd wight was he) 
 
 With thoughts of future joy. 
 
 But now their various pastimes o'er, 
 Lord Baldwin homeward hies once more 
 
 To taste the cheering bowl ; 
 His bosom burns with strong desire, 
 Meanwhile determinations dire 
 
 Are gath'ring in his soul. 
 
 Fair Emma, beauteous injur'd maid ! 
 In youthful innocence betray'd, 
 
 By practises most base; 
 Had long the Baron's heart engag'd, 
 But time that passion had assuag'd, 
 
 And shunn'd was her embrace. 
 
284 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 Thus oft too easy purchas'd joy 
 The libertine will soonest cloy, 
 
 And in aversion cease ; 
 So Emma, once tho' dearly lov'd, 
 Now cruelly must be remov'd, 
 
 To suit her Lord's caprice. 
 
 But how to manage this affair 
 Awhile employ'd the Baron's care, 
 
 And kept his mind in doubt; 
 Dominion she too long had held 
 By easy means to be expelfd, 
 
 Or violence tarn'd out. 
 
 Long time the subject he revolves, 
 At last on secrecy resolves, 
 
 Since better might not be ; 
 For her he drugs the fatal bowl, 
 With baneful laurel, poison foul ; — 
 
 Thus, murder sets him free ! 
 
 The night came on ; — with passion fir'd 
 Lord Baldwin from his hai) retired 
 
 Toward the church yard drear; 
 Nor either did the place or tune, 
 Or recently corumittcil crime, 
 
 Impress his mind with fear. 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 285 
 
 Serene and peaceful was the night, 
 Clear shone the moon with silver light, 
 
 Whilst all was hush'd around ; 
 No sound except the murm'ring stream, 
 No voice except the owlet's scream, 
 
 Disturb'd the calm profound. 
 
 At length the church-yard rose in view, 
 And full was seen the sable yew ; 
 
 Sad melancholy tree ; 
 The midnight bell had not yet toll'd : 
 Lord Baldwin's blood was waxing cold; 
 
 No damsel could he see. 
 
 At length, with deep and solemn knell, 
 The dreary hour rang on the bell ! 
 
 That moment, fair in view, 
 Lord Baldwin, by the moon's pale light, 
 A female view'd, in garments white, 
 
 Beneath the lonely yew. 
 
 Quick to the place the Baron press'd, 
 Desire wild burning in his breast, 
 
 To moderation lost; 
 But soon his furious ardour fled, 
 His spirits sunk — he hung his head — 
 
 'Twas murder'd Emma's ghost! 
 
286 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 " Accursed wretch ! (the spectre said,) 
 Betraying;, thou hast been betray'd ; 
 
 Thy wiles have wrought thy woe ! 
 Yon yawning grave, false man, behold ! 
 Thy body it shall soon enfold, 
 
 For Heav'n awards it so. 
 
 " Think, monster! in that shorten'd time 
 Thou hast to live, upon thy crime ; 
 
 Think, ere too late it be! 
 Short is thy journey to the tomb, 
 Near is thy everlasting doom ! 
 
 Lord Baldwin, think on me !'J 
 
 No more she spoke, but softly fled ; 
 Lord Baldwin shook with inward dread, 
 
 For horror fill'd his mind ; 
 With speed he quits the fatal spot, 
 Straight homeward hies, and saunters not. 
 
 Nor dares to look behind. 
 
 Clear shone the moon with silver light, 
 Serene and peaceful was the night, 
 
 And all was hush'd around ; 
 No sound except the murm'ring stream., 
 No voice except the owlet's scream, 
 
 Disturb'd the calm profound. 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 287 
 
 When, as Lord Baldwin nearer drew 
 His castle gate, there fair in view 
 
 A lovely damsel stood; 
 Her vestments all appear'd the same 
 As those worn by the beauteous dame, 
 
 Near Warnell's skirting wood. 
 
 " Shame fall your heart! (the damsel said;) 
 Why, could a weak and wanton maid 
 
 Affright Lord Baldwin so ? 
 'Twas I that play'd the ghost, to try 
 Your courage ; but, Lord Baldwin, why 
 
 Did you so quickly go ?" 
 
 The crimson blush of shame o'erspread 
 The baron's cheek ; his terrors fled, 
 
 And fondly he replied, — 
 " Come to my arms, thou charming one ! 
 'Tis thou, and thou art fit alone 
 
 To be Lord Baldwin's bride ! 
 
 " Come then unto my longing arms, 
 Nor cruelly withhold those charms, 
 
 Since nothing shall us sever ; 
 For here 1 swear that thou art mine, 
 Body and soul 1 will be thine, 
 
 For ever and for ever !" 
 
288 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 " Body and soul ! (the Lady cried,) 
 With that I am well satisfied, 
 
 The promise comes with grace;'* 
 Then, as the vulture swift, she sprung, 
 And on his neck and bosom hung 
 
 With eager fix'd embrace. 
 
 " A vaunt! detested fiend of hell! 
 
 (The Baron roar'd, with dreadful yell,) 
 
 What means this dev'lish strife!" 
 This was not she, the Lady fair 
 Of Warnell-wood, so debonair, 
 
 But Adelaide, his wife! 
 
 Her fleshless arms his neck embrac'd, 
 Her putrid lips to his were plac'd, 
 
 Chill horror shook his soul ; 
 Her smell was like the scorpion's breath, 
 Her icy touch was cold as death, 
 
 And horrible the whole. 
 
 " Shake off your fear, (the spectre said) 
 What makes Lord Baldwin thus afraid ! 
 
 Where is your courage fled ? 
 Can he, who could destroy his wife, 
 Who reft poor Emma of her life, 
 
 Thus shake with childish dread ? 
 
LORD BALDWIN. 289 
 
 "When sated with my bridal charms, 
 To take another to your arms, 
 
 What cruelty you us'd ! 
 To me the poison'd bowl you gave, 
 And sent me to an early grave, 
 
 Degraded and abus'd. 
 
 -»■ 
 
 "In love a second time with me, 
 The self-same cruel villainy 
 
 You practis'd with success : 
 Like mine, with yon, was Emma's fate; 
 Short was your love — severe your hate ; 
 
 Abandon' d to excess. 
 
 " What vice, what baseness has been thine, 
 Who laws, both human and divine, 
 
 Didst proudly set at nought ! 
 By faithless protestations made, 
 What innocents hast thou betray'd, 
 
 To shame and ruin brought ! 
 
 " But now, Lord Baldwin, at the last, 
 I have thee, and will hold thee fast ; 
 
 On earth nought shall us sever : 
 Your oath was — By the pow'rs divine, 
 Body and soul I will be thine, 
 
 For ever and for ever !" 
 p 2 
 
290 LORD BALDWIN. 
 
 Lord Baldwin made her no reply; 
 Pale grew his face and dim his eye; 
 His heart it throbb'd full sore : 
 At length, with an expiring- yell, 
 He on the pavement lifeless fell, 
 And words spoke never more ! 
 
 Yet often, as the rustics say, 
 
 Lord Baldwin takes his midnight way 
 
 Along the winding stream ; 
 Two female forms, array'd in white, 
 Pursue him thro' the live-long night, 
 
 And hoot with hideous scream ! 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 XjOOK where yon cottage stands so humbly neat, 
 Oft the tir'd pilgrim's welcome snug retreat; 
 Whether from summer's heat, or parching drought, 
 Or wintry blasts, he kindly shelter sought. 
 The tempting sign to entrance did provoke, 
 And time was shorten'd by the landlord's joke. 
 The nut-brown ale, and hostess' courteous smile, 
 Serv'd the dull hour of ling'ring to beguile. 
 For complaisance was ever seen to wait 
 On those who deigu'd a visit at their irate. 
 With rural neatness was the mansion dress'd, 
 Which gave the liquor still a double zest. 
 And so well pleas'd were all who chanc'd to stay, 
 That none e'er pass'd — who came again that way : 
 But now low laid is this industrious pair, 
 And ceas'd is both their courtesy and care. 
 Beneath yon hillock, where the myrtles wave, 
 This couple lie interr'd within one grave; 
 Strange was their destiny, unkind their fate. 
 But hush ! till I their history relate. 
 
292 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 Near where yon distant mountains tow'ring rise, 
 And Skiddaw's summit seems to pierce the skies, 
 Liv'd Farmer Harrowood, an honest boor, 
 A man nor very rich, nor very poor, 
 A farm he had indeed, it was but small, 
 A horse, two cows, some sheep, and that was all ; 
 Yet, he respected by his neighbours was, 
 Who think of what man is, not what he has ; 
 For 'lis not in the lowly vale of life 
 As in the higher spheres, where pride and strife, 
 With swoll'n ambition, occupy the great, 
 And merit rests on eminence and state. 
 No ! Farmer Harrowood was honest deem'd, 
 And was for virtue more than wealth esteem'd; 
 To cultivate with care his little stock, 
 Or on the mountain side to tend his flock, 
 Was nearly all his labour, all his care — 
 His heart for wishes had no time to spare. 
 The body's labour still engag'd the mind, 
 And health was still with exercise combin'd. 
 It chanc'd the Farmer rose one morn in May, 
 And loliis labour took his wonted way. 
 In merry mood, he clseeily trutlgd along, 
 And caroi'd to himself a homespun, £pag ; 
 When suddenly he heard, with fix'd, surprise, 
 Distinct and near, a whining infants cries. 
 
 He look'd about — and nestling on the ground 
 Beneath the hedge, a new-burn infant found. 
 
 i, 
 
% 
 
 THE FOUNDLING. 293 
 
 Naked it was, save that a rag- was roll'd 
 Around its limbs, to shield it from the cold : 
 Mov'd with amazement at th' uncommon scene. 
 The Farmer look'd quite thunderstruck 1 ween ; 
 Yet, as his bosom : pity ever knew, 
 He stood not long 1 in pond'ring- what to do; 
 But from the earth the sprawling- infant rears, 
 And to his wife the curious off'ring bears; 
 To whom, as it had pleas'd omniscient heav'n, 
 No offspring of her own had e'er been giv'n. 
 To her the husband tells the wond'rous tale, 
 Perhaps the strangest thing e'er happen'd in their 
 
 dale ; 
 No jealous doubt the rustic dame alarms, 
 But pleas'd, she takes the foundling to her arms, 
 And with a mother's fondness, and her cares, 
 Each necessary speedily prepares. 
 Soon garments proper for its rank are bought, 
 Whilst, as assiduously, a nurse is sought. 
 Its wants their joint attention seem'd t' employ, 
 And Rowland was the name they gave the boy. 
 Fast thro' the neighb'ring vales the tidings run, 
 That Farmer Harrowood had got a son. 
 The case mysterious vex'd each rustic's brain, 
 And wild conjecture guess'd — but guess'd in vain. 
 Some thought of this one, others thought of that, 
 And Rowland was the theme of ev'ry chat. 
 J^e'er heed be he of high or humble race, 
 The child was healthful, and improv'd apace. 
 
294 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 First, by degrees, begins to lisp and talk, 
 And then progressively attempts to walk ; 
 Next in his fosterfather's hand he goes, 
 And calls him sire — as he no other knows; 
 Still rip'ning onward, see him now ascend 
 The mountains, and his fleecy charge attend ; 
 For, ever pliant to his sire's controul, 
 T' obey seem'd all the pleasure of his soul. 
 
 Industrious, careful, honest, and sincere, 
 He to his neighbours, as his friends, was dear; 
 Whilst not a youth that rang'd the silvan grove, 
 But what solicited young Rowland's love : 
 Nor was he ever in his friendship shy, 
 As to oblige seem'd to increase his joy ; 
 Nor could the youthful beauties of the place, 
 With unconcern, view his engaging face. 
 A manly comliness, tho' but a child, 
 Sat on his brow, and o'er each feature smil'd. 
 Mix'd with a soft engagingness and ease, 
 That seem'd adapted ev'ry heart to please. 
 In fine, by either sex he was approv'd, 
 The males commended, and the females lov'd. 
 
 Amongst the various damsels ef the dale, 
 The beauteous boast of Keswick's lovely vale, 
 Was Marg'ret, loveliest of the rustic train 
 Who sport at ev'ning on the daisied plain. 
 Her sparkling eye with softest lustre shone, 
 Her cheeks were like the rose-bud newly blown. 
 
X THE FOUNDLING. 295 
 
 Her limbs seem'd form'd in nature's fairest mould, 
 
 And her whole frame was beauteous to behold. 
 
 Base born she was, the truth we must record, 
 
 For all depends upon the author's word. 
 
 Veracity historians should observe, 
 
 Nor from the paths of truth affect to swerve : 
 
 Her mother was a low-bred country dame, 
 
 (As one would say) of no exalted fame ; 
 
 But, whether by seduction's wiles overthrown, 
 
 Or from propensity to lewdness prone, 
 
 Is what I am not able here to say, 
 
 As 'tis a matter doubtful to this day ; 
 
 But this we know, the child was born in shame, 
 
 Tho' from the world she kept the father's name. 
 
 The parish nurs'd the girl, who grew apace, 
 
 And as she wax'd in years, improvd in grace. 
 
 But no more like the dame that gave her birth, 
 
 Than melancholy is a-kin to mirth ; 
 
 For she was modest as a cloister'd nun, 
 
 And chaste as Dian, sister of the sun. 
 
 And Farmer Jobson says, and says 'tis true, 
 
 A finer girl than her he never knew ; 
 
 For she with him was servant seven long years, 
 
 As by her own indenture still appears ; 
 
 And whilst she serv'd him he declares, that still 
 
 Her chiefest pleasure seem'd to be his will. 
 
 Polite to all she met, she won, no doubt, 
 
 Tk' esteem of all the neighbours round about. 
 
296 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 Well, be it so, 'tis meet we forward speed, 
 And to the marrow of our tale proceed. 
 
 Full fifteen years o'er Margret's head had hurl'd, 
 Since she'd been usher'd to the busy world ; 
 At which said period ev'ry blooming" grace 
 That youth can boast, sat pictur d in her face; 
 Oft had her eyes on Rowland fix'd their stare, 
 Unconscious of the cause that kept them there. 
 Of love she little knew except the name— 
 Strange to the cause, altho' she felt the flame. 
 Yet, still she gaz'd on Rowland with delight, 
 And felt uneasy when not in her sight. 
 
 Meanwhile the youth had now attain'd sixteen, 
 By far the sprucest stripling on the green ; 
 With him not one of all the rural throng 
 Could run so fast, or hold it out so long ; 
 With such dexterity could leap the mound, 
 Or tumble heels o'er crupper on the ground 
 In all these puerile feats he far excell'd, 
 Nor was unenvied by his peers beheld ; 
 Who all with equal emulation fir'd, 
 To match at least, if not surpass, aspir'd. 
 At ev'ning, when the labours of the day 
 Were ceas'd, and twilight gave the village play, 
 With jocund heart he'd haste him to the ring, 
 And with his neighbour-youths would dance and 
 
 sing; 
 Yet, when he sported 'midst the happy host, 
 Of all the nymphs, he notic'd Marg'ret most 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 297 
 
 With mark'd attention he beheld each grace, 
 Each rising- beauty in her blushing- face ; 
 Watch'd all her movements with assiduous care, 
 And all her pains and pleasures seem'd to share. 
 Change where she would, or saunter here or there ; 
 He still was happiest when she was most near ; 
 And when dark night proclaim'd their ending sport, 
 Tho' e'er so long to him, the time seem'd short. 
 If e'er he went by chance to Maudlin Fair,* 
 No sport he found it Marg'ret were not there. 
 But fraught with nick-nacks homeward soon he hied, 
 With ev'ry thing, save her, dissatisfied. 
 Thus long with passion combating they strove, 
 Each fearful to reveal their smother'd love; 
 Which, stifled thus, but with more ardour bums, 
 And ev'ry effort of concealment spurns, 
 Till bursting forth it baifles all controul, 
 And each to each confess'd their secret soul. 
 Long had their neighbours mark'd their mutual 
 
 love, 
 Nor one their flame could justly disapprove. 
 Their equal fortunes, and their equal age, 
 All seem'd a happy union to presage; 
 None could object to diff'rence of estate, 
 So like their persons, and so like their fate. 
 And ev'ry body thought, who thought could 
 
 spare, 
 There could not well be found a nicer pair. 
 
 * An annual fair held at Keswick. 
 
 a 2 
 
298 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 Whilst Farmer Harrowood was pleas'd to th' life, 
 And swore that Marg'ret should be Rowland's 
 
 wife ! 
 And in his will, so well he lik'd the lad, 
 He would bequeath him ev'ry thing he had. 
 Meanwhile the years on tardy pinions flew, 
 Whilst stronger their commutual passions grew. 
 At length a day was fix'd to solemnize 
 Their nuptials, and complete their long-wish'd joys. 
 The news diffus'd a joy throughout the dale, 
 And ev'ry youth was gladden'd with the tale. 
 The morn arriv'd — in gayest vestments dress'd, 
 The rustic groupe towards the bridal press'd, 
 All equally desirous to attend ; 
 As ev'ry swain to Rowland was a friend, 
 And ev'ry nymph th' esteem of Marg'ret shar'd, 
 So all the village, on that morn, prepar'd 
 To celebrate with joy the festive day, 
 Where smiles illum'd each face, and ev'ry heart 
 was gay. 
 The Gordian knot was tied — the happy pair, 
 Escorted by their train, from church repair 
 To farmer Jobson's house, who had supplied 
 A dinner for the love he bore the bride ! 
 Here simple dainties in abundance made 
 A feast unmix'd with lux'ry or parade. 
 The spark'ling ale in goblets stream'd around, 
 And merriment the guileless banquet crown'd. 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 299 
 
 The dinner done, the cheerful throng withdrawn, 
 Prepare their gambols on the daisied lawn; 
 Where dulcet sounds of music echoing round, 
 A doubling- chorus from the hills resound ; 
 At length the jovial party, ev'ning come, 
 'Giii each to think of their respective home : 
 The pair they wish all happiness and health, 
 With handsome children, and increase of wealth, 
 Each farmer cordial shakes his neighbour's hand, 
 And from the green retire the jocund band. 
 Young Rowland with his blushing- Marg'ret goes 
 To Jobsons nouse, the bridal scene to close. 
 A few selected friends attend him there, 
 And with him all the joys of ev'ning share; 
 Till night now far advanc'd, the bridegroom led 
 Young Marg'ret from amidst the throng to bed. 
 Here at friend Jobson's house a week they stay, 
 Who former service wishful to repay, 
 Three ewes selects, the fairest of his flock, 
 And to the bride presents, to found her stock ; 
 With promises of favours yet to come, 
 As soon as they got settled once at home. 
 Young Rowland, ever careful in his schemes, 
 Had sav'd, whilst in his servitude, it seems, 
 By wagers won, and various other ways, 
 A sum, in time, might independence raise. 
 Nor long his hours in indolence he pass'd, 
 For, looking round each day, he found at last 
 
300 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 A place close by, quite answ'ring to his plan ; 
 And now he deem'd himself a happy man. 
 Here soon he shifts, and stocks his little farm, 
 And, as the road was near, thought it no harm 
 To keep a public-house ; as, by that chance, 
 He hop'd his little fortune to advance : 
 And on his sign inscribed the humble tale, 
 That here was sold — " Good Porter, Beer y and 
 
 Ale!" 
 In this his warmest wishes were excell'd, 
 His house with customers was daily fill d. 
 The landlord's courtesy allur'd each guest, 
 And all the goodness of his ale confess' d ; 
 Whilst ev'ry trav'ler, with his welcome fain, 
 Promis'd to call whene'er he came again. 
 Thus happiness appear'd to bless their days, 
 And thus success attended on their ways. 
 No feuds domestic vex'd their frugal life, 
 The husband happy — and content the wife. 
 That love, which in wild passion first begun, 
 Wore into friendship, as it onward run. 
 In six short years six children's smiles they share, 
 As Rowland, mild, and as their mother fair. 
 But how evanescent are earthly joys, 
 How soon Misfortune's touch, each hope destroys, 
 How soon our fairest prospects are o'erthrown, 
 And dire Despair usurps Hope's radiant throne! — 
 It chanc'd, one wintry day, quite jget and cold, 
 That Marg'ret's mother, feeble grown, and old, 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 301 
 
 Set down the vale, in slow and unequal trot, 
 
 To pay a visit to her daughter's cot. 
 
 For, tho' conceiv'd in guilt and born in shame 
 
 Dear to the parent was the daughter's name. 
 
 Fast fell the rain, the hurricane blew strong, 
 
 As Magdalen, all storm-struck, trudg'd along. 
 
 Scarce could she combat with the baffling blast, 
 
 And in the mire her feet were oft stuck fast. 
 
 At length she reached the place, but so o'ercome, 
 
 She scarce could gain the portal of the dome. 
 
 She knock'd — the ready door wide open flew ; 
 
 But how was Marg'ret thunderstruck to view 
 
 The hapless parent of her lawless birth 
 
 Exhausted, pale, and sinking to the earth ! 
 
 Tho' Marg'ret never knew a mother's care, 
 
 At least of kindness had but little share, 
 
 Yet filial piety her bosom warms, 
 
 And, taking the poor wand'rer in her arms, 
 
 She bore her gently, tho' bedaub'd with mire, 
 
 And plac'd her in a chair before the fire. 
 
 There, with officious care, a cordial brings, 
 
 And ministers revivifying things; 
 
 With anxious hopes to stop the fleeting breath, 
 
 And snatch her from the yawning jaws of death. 
 
 The daughters kindly care, the genial flame, 
 
 Recover' d partially the shiv'ring dame. 
 
 But death's cold hand had grasp'd about her heart, 
 
 And, life seem'd stagnant in each vital part. 
 
302 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 And tho' affection might with nature strive, 
 It certain seem'd she could not long- survive ; 
 Convinc'd herself of her approaching end, 
 Them she entreats a moment to attend ; 
 Ere she surrender'd to all-conquering fate, 
 To what she then was labouring to relate; 
 But begg'd, that to the world might ne'er be 
 
 known, 
 What was of consequence to them alone ! 
 They hush'd — th' expiring beldam thus begun ; 
 " Draw near, my daughter, and attend, my son- 
 B<>th children of my womb ! say, whilst I live, 
 Can you this peerless cruelty forgive ? 
 If so, 'twould rather ease my parting soul, 
 And soothe a conscience with offences foul ! 
 Brother and sister by one sire you are, 
 One common mother too, in me, you share ! 
 A lawless libertine your father, he 
 Seduc'd, betray'd, and then deserted, me! 
 Thee, Rowland, first I bore; and 'twas my aim, 
 By thy exposure, to conceal my shame ; 
 For 1 so artfully the world beguil'd, 
 No mortal ever knew I was with child ! 
 But, Margret, ere with thee I'd pregnant been 
 Six months, my guilt was evidently seen ! 
 But, oh ! I faint ! the icy hand of death 
 Suspends each faculty, and stops my breath ! 
 Oh ! can you, can you pardon, ere I die ?"— 
 She ceas'd — no more but one expiring sigh. 
 
THE FOUNDLING. 303 
 
 But say, what pencil shall describe the look 
 
 That of the hapless pair possession took! 
 
 Silent in grief, both petrified they stood, 
 
 Whilst horror fix'd their looks, and chill'd their 
 blood ! 
 The awful pause at length poor Rowland broke. 
 
 And thus unto his consort-sister spoke : 
 
 " Marsf'ret! how shall L this blow survive ? 
 
 It were in vain with destiny to strive ; 
 
 I feel more agonies than tongue can tell ! 
 
 The damn'd reflection drives me down to hell ! 
 
 Incest! — Perdition — Heav'n can ne'er forgive 
 
 The monstrous wretch ! and suffer him to live ! 
 
 O cruel, cursed mother! — damn the tongue, 
 
 In telling us the secret kept so long ! 
 
 Why, if thy silence saunter'd to this time, 
 
 Might we not live unconscious of the crime ? 
 
 Why not, when guiltless of that damning fact, 
 Could she have spoke, and stopp'd th' infernal act? 
 But now to come, when all the crime was past, 
 And make us doubly miserable at last ! 
 Guilt was not ours till conscious of th' < ;Tence, 
 And tho' we err'd, 'twas but in innocence ! 
 Pure was our love, reciprocal the flame, 
 In childhood nurtur'd, .md thro' life the same, 
 Happy in each, till her foul ravings first 
 Show'd us our sin, and made us doubly curs'd! 1 ' 
 Thus storm'd the injur 1 d husband and the son, 
 Whilst from his tongue loud execrations run ! 
 
304 THE FOUNDLING. 
 
 Wild phrenzy shook his frame ! all reason fled , 
 And one short week beheld him with the dead ! 
 Poor Marg'ret longer bore her hapless part, 
 A year she pin'd, but sorrow broke her heart!* 
 
 * The foregoing 1 story, however romantic it may appear, is not- 
 withstanding too certainly a fact, which happened in the west of Cum- 
 berland, since the commencement of the nineteenth century. 
 
THE 
 
 UNFORTUNATE WANDERER. 
 
 VyOLD, cold blew the wind o'er the brows of 
 
 King- Harry,* 
 The hoar on the hether fell heavy ond chill, 
 The day far declin'd, when, dejected and weary, 
 A trav'ller slow wound down the slope of the hill, 
 Lank famine and want in his face were depicted, 
 His limbs with the cold and fatigue seem'd con- 
 stricted, 
 His looks spoke a heart with deep anguish afflicted, 
 And mis'ry had mark d him with masterly skill. 
 
 To the mansion of wealth his weak steps were di- 
 rected, 
 In hopes an asylum through pity to find ; 
 
 But often by wealth are the needy neglected, 
 Their hearts are more cold than the tempest be- 
 hind ; 
 For spite of entreaties, the poor hapless stranger 
 Is thrust from the portal, 'midst darkness and 
 
 danger, 
 No sympathy here for the sad sinking stranger ; 
 
 The wild waste receives him, and cold blows the 
 wind. 
 
 * A mountain in the eastern part of Cumberland. 
 R 2 
 
306 THE UNFORTUNATE WANDERER. 
 
 By the side of a hedge, which the tempest was 
 
 tearing, 
 The wand'rer sunk down, his sad fate to deplore ; 
 "Ah! Erin, (he cried, for his country was Erin,) 
 Dear, dear happy land ! I shall see thee no more ! 
 For here, by barbarity unprecedented, 
 I languish unseen, and expire unlamented, 
 Whilst all my complaints are from hearing pre- 
 vented, 
 And drown'd by the whirlwinds that round me 
 loud roar. 
 
 Oh, Albion ! where lives now thy boasted humanity? 
 That clemency, partial, extends not to me ; 
 No vestige I find of remaining urbanity, 
 Which if it once flourish'd, now ceases to be, 
 The savage who ranges the desert most dreary, 
 Whom reason ne'er taught, nor religion more 
 
 cheery, 
 Would not thus have spurn'd a poor wand'rer 
 
 when weary, 
 And left him to die at the foot of a tree." 
 
 I ask'd but a morsel to stay my keen hunger, 
 I ask'd but a shield from the cold and the rain, 
 With common compassion what claims can be 
 
 stronger, 
 But such with the selfish but seldom obtain. 
 
THE UNFORTUNATE WANDERER. 307 
 
 For sordidly fearful of ray sad remaining - , 
 Unmov'd by ray anguish, and deaf to complaining-, 
 They thrust me away, all entreaties disdaining, 
 And left me to languish in mis'ry and pain. 
 
 " Bewiklerd, unknown, 'mongst a people inhuman, 
 Where pity ne'er dwelt her kind aid to impart; 
 With no kindly ray the drear waste to illumine, 
 No friend to support me, or soothe my sad heart. 
 Ah! little suppose you, my dear, dear connections, 
 My babes, my Alicia, what piercing reflections 
 Engage my sad bosom ! the sad retrospections 
 Increase my keen anguish and double the smart! 
 
 Sick, sick is my heart, whilst around the storm 
 
 musters, 
 The cold hand of death seems to sink to my soul ; 
 Unheedful I hear the loud tempest that blusters, 
 Unmindful I note the big gusts as they howl. 
 Sensation scarce lives, oh! just heav'n, forgive me, 
 If, dying, the cruel I curse that outlive me, 
 Who neither protection nor pity would give me, 
 Expos' d to the rage of the storms' as they roll." 
 
 "Whose he that exclaims? (call'd a voice, deeply 
 
 sighing ;) 
 Whose he that sustains all the ragre of the storm ?" 
 " Heed not (he replied) a poor wand'rer now dying, 
 To whom thy compassion no part can perform, 
 
308 THE UNFORTUNATE WANDERER. 
 
 But if 'twas true pity thy heart actuated, 
 Thy purpose by heav'n shall be compensated, 
 And those who inhumanly spurn'd me be hated 
 For cruelty that would a demon deform." 
 
 "Live, live and despair not, (exclaim'd the kind 
 
 stranger,) 
 Heav'n yet may restore thee to comfort and life; 
 And kindly support thee thro' hardships and danger, 
 To visit thy country, thy friends, and thy wife." 
 " Ah ! no, (said the wandrer,) each fond expecta- 
 tion 
 In me sadly sinks, being past consolation, 
 The cold hand of death fast arrests each sensa- 
 tion ;" — 
 He sigh'd — and Death's silence concluded the 
 
 strife ! 
 
 ■ • 
 
 - 
 
 Where sympathy sits in the soft heaving bosom, 
 The eye, still responsive, a tear can bestow; 
 But where rancour crops pity's delicate blossom, 
 Such tender emotions they seldom can know, 
 Think, think, O ye sordid disciples of malice, 
 Whose hearts to the cries of distiess are still ca- 
 
 lous, 
 That fate, which the convict receives at the gallows, 
 As properly Justice on you might bestow. 
 
ODO THE PROUD. 
 
 \J F all the proud Normans to William that bow'd, 
 
 When England with dole was o'erspread, 
 Not one was more cruel, by all 'twas allow'd, 
 Than he erst ycleped Sir Odo the Proud ; 
 For his name's yet remember'd with dread. 
 
 His castle, the strongest perhaps of the day, 
 Near the banks of the Sol way then stood ; 
 Around the usurper's domains widely lay, 
 His vassals were num'rous, despotic his sway, 
 But his title was founded in blood ! 
 
 A fam'd Saxon Lord, yclad Morcar the Brave, 
 
 Those manors had formerly held ; 
 But Harold's sad fate to his countrymen gave 
 A blow that soon threaten'd the whole to enslave, 
 
 And Morcar his lands was expell'd. 
 
 Now forc'd a small portion to till for his bread, 
 
 Of his own once extensive estate, 
 The indigent life of a vassal he led, 
 His flocks the fair Hilda industriously fed, 
 
 And shar'd, quite resign'd, in his fate. 
 
310 ODO THE TROTTD. 
 
 Fair Hilda for beauty as widely renown'd, 
 
 As Morcar for courage was fam'd ; 
 
 With each female grace and each virtue was 
 crown'd, 
 
 On her even queens might with envy have frown'd, 
 
 For the Rose of the North she was nam'd. 
 
 Tt chanc'd as Sir Odo the field one day pass'd, 
 
 Where Hilda was tending her care, 
 His eyes on the unhappy beauty he cast, 
 His passion was kindled, his heart flutter' d fast, 
 And he ardently gaz'd on the fair. 
 
 His pride and his pow'r each respect taught to 
 scorn, 
 
 For virtue his bosom ne'er knew, 
 From Morcar what tho' his domains he had torn, 
 And he forc'd to drudge in a state most forlorn, 
 
 His Hilda must now be forc'd too. 
 
 Thus fir'd with desire, which brutality warms, 
 
 The tyrant rush'd on to the field ; 
 The poor helpless innocent seiz'd in his arms, 
 
 And cried — " 'Tis in vain to refuse me those 
 charms, 
 Which, maugre resistance, must yield." 
 
 Entreaty was vain where no pity was known, 
 
 Resistance was equally vain ; 
 Her shrieks rent the air, Odo's bosom alone 
 Unmov'd could have heard such a pitiful moan, 
 
 But here could no pity obtain. 
 
ODO THE PROUD. rill 
 
 Her cries Morcar heard, and he flew to her aid, 
 
 For wind's in his vengeance hie found ; 
 But poor was the effort, unarm'd, he assay'd 
 His Hilda's defence, for the tyrant's keen blade 
 Soon laid him a corpse on the ground ! 
 
 Then quick from his hand the dire weapon she 
 drew, 
 Which straight thro' her bosom she thrust ! 
 And thus she exclaim'd — " Bloody tyrant, here 
 
 view 
 A scene that ere long- to thyself shall accrue, 
 The reward of thy rage and thy lust !" 
 
 Asham'd to behold, and distracted with rage, 
 
 Away to the castle he press'd ; 
 But what shall his conflict of passions assuage, 
 Here sharper reflections his bosom engage, 
 
 And horror beat loud at his breast ! 
 
 No longer the chase can Sir Odo delight, 
 
 No longer of pleasure can share ; 
 Foul terrors torment him by day arrcf by night. 
 Two stern bloody spectres are still in his sight, 
 
 And pride now gives way to despair. 
 
 He solitude shuns with solicitous dread, 
 Nor from company pleasure can take; 
 Or when on his pillow he lays down Ins head. 
 Expectant repose to obtain front his bed, 
 More dreadful to dream than awake. 
 
312 ODO THE PROUD. 
 
 The dying" prediction of Hilda the fair 
 
 Sunk deep in the knight's guilty breast; 
 Distrust and disquietude, join'd with despair, 
 Corroded his bi som and heighten'd his care, 
 Whilst grandeur itself grew a pest. 
 
 The curfew had toll'd, and the hamlet was still, 
 
 No sound near the castle was heard, 
 Except the faint sound of the morm'ring rill, 
 Or winds hollow whistling along the bleak hill, 
 By which scarce the aspen was stirr'd ; 
 
 When, lo ! the great bell of the mansion was rung, 
 
 As boding most dreadful alarms ; 
 With horror and haste from his couch Odo sprung, 
 His sword by his side in confusion he slung, 
 
 And call'd his domestics to arms. 
 
 To arras flew the servants, despair in each face, 
 
 For none the occasion could tell ; 
 Loud shouts and wild uproar surrounded the place, 
 The court and the castle appear' d in a blaze, 
 
 And loud, and more loud rang the bell. 
 
 It seem'd as if hell had burst forth in a crowd, 
 
 And fury permitted to range ; 
 When still and anon was re-echo'd aloud — 
 " Come forth, thou base tyrant ! thou Odo the 
 Proud ! 
 
 For Morcar and Hilda, revenge!" 
 
ODO THE PROUD. 313 
 
 Sir Odo rush'd forth with his sword in his hand, 
 
 T' examine the plight of the place ; 
 But, horrible ! when he beheld the fell baud, 
 And Morcar, who furiously tossing a brand, 
 
 Discharged it on Odo's wan face ! 
 
 Quite stuun'd and confounded, he fell to the 
 ground, 
 
 Blue flames seem'd his corse to enshroud ; 
 A legion of spectres encompass' d him round, x 
 Whilst each with his firebrand inflicted a wound, 
 
 Yelling— 4 ' Perish Sir Odo the Proud !" 
 
 So said, the fell legion their clamour loud raise, 
 
 Triumphant, tho' dreadful the roar! 
 The castle was rent from the top to the base, 
 And dire devastation soon cover'd the place, 
 But Odo was heard of no more ! 
 
 The villagers, strangers oft show to the place, 
 
 Where once the proud fabric was seen ; 
 The ground- plot the traveller may easily trace, 
 The ditches without, and the vast inner space, 
 And place where the portal had been. 
 
 Yet still, as they say, on that night in the year, 
 Round that place, by the moon's silver sheen, 
 A legion of furies, with horrible cheer, 
 Keep wassal, whilst torches and firebrands they 
 bear, 
 And dreadfully dance round the green ! 
 s 'I 
 
314 0T)0 THE PROUD. 
 
 And as with their gambols horrific the crowd 
 
 In movements mysteriously strange, 
 With hootings tremendous they halloo aloud — 
 "Down, down thou base tyrant! thou Odo the 
 Proud ! 
 Thus we Morcar and Hilda revenge !" 
 
THE 
 
 SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 The following story, ludicrous and improbable as it may appear in 
 many of its circumstances, was, nevertheless, presented to the 
 public as a matter of fact in all its particulars, about the begin- 
 ning- of the year 1812, and inserted in almost all the pu'lic 
 journals in Great Britain. I have made no alteration in the bulk 
 of the story, more than that of adopting a fictitious name for 
 the adventurer. 
 
 VJrOOD people all, both far and near, 
 
 Attend unto my tale ; 
 The which, when you've had time to hear, 
 
 To please you cannot fail. 
 
 For true as strange is this my news, 
 And eke as strange as true ; 
 
 Therefore, kind reader, don't refuse 
 To it the credit due. 
 
 Giles Heywood was an honest man, 
 His neighbours know full well ; 
 
 And none deny this fact well can, 
 If they the truth will tell. 
 
316 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 He dealt in butter, bacon, cheese ; 
 
 Salt Herring's and oatmeal ; 
 In salt and flour, hops, and split peas, 
 
 Eke honest Giles did deal. 
 
 Now once it happen'd on a time, 
 
 I can't precisely say, 
 Conveniently with this my rhyme, 
 
 On what particular day. 
 
 Nor can 1 more exactly tell 
 
 In what particular town, 
 There strange adventures him befel, 
 
 Which I to write sit down. 
 
 But this full certainly I know, 
 'Twas at a town and where 
 
 Of hops there was an ample shew, 
 Brought to an annual fair. 
 
 Giles Hey wood, as 1 said before,— 
 
 An honest man was he ; 
 And was, still to his credit more, 
 
 As prudent as could be. 
 
 For home he never once forsook, 
 
 Where'er his business led ; 
 But he each due precaution took, 
 
 That might stand him instead. 
 
THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HILL. 317 
 
 Now Giles, as you must know, inclin'd 
 
 To go to this same fair ; 
 And, as he wanted hops, designed 
 
 To make a purchase there. 
 
 Of money he had decent lot 
 
 Tn his portmanteau put ; 
 And so equipp'd, set off jog trot, 
 
 Without more if or but. 
 
 Here, reader, thou wilt perhaps believe. 
 
 This fair was near at hard ; 
 But prithee, don't thyself deceive ; 
 
 Each rash surmise command. 
 
 Conclusion uninform'd, we see 
 
 The judgment oft beguiles ; 
 And 'twas, my friend, 'twixt thee and me, 
 
 Full forty weary miles. 
 
 The days were short, the roads were bad, 
 
 The weather somewhat wet ; 
 When he upon his sorry pad, 
 
 To this hop market set. 
 
 And as thro' thick and thin he pass'd, 
 
 With countenance demure ; 
 Oft on his bags his eyes he cast, 
 
 To see all were secure. 
 
318 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HllX. 
 
 Without adventure thro' the day 
 He push'd his weary steed ; 
 
 Nor stopt he much, nor made delay, 
 For his or horse's need. 
 
 But when the thick'ning shades of night 
 'Gan round him to descend, 
 
 Then wish'd he much, as well he might, 
 To reach his journey's end. 
 
 Yet still ten solitary miles 
 
 Were lengthen'd out before ; 
 
 Th' anxious heart of fearful Giles 
 Was certes griev'd full sore. 
 
 Yet maugre darkness, wind, and rain, 
 He plung'd thro' thick and thin ; 
 
 And plying whip, and spur, and rein, 
 At length he gain'd the inn. 
 
 Now at this inn, as I may say, 
 
 Friend Giles was known full well ; 
 
 As he'd been there right many a day, 
 When hops were there to sell. 
 
 But now 'twas more than twelve o'clock, 
 When he got, wearied there ; 
 
 And long was he compell'd to knock, 
 tire he could make them hear. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 319 
 
 The host with mingled gapes and smiles, 
 Blear eyes, and down stretch'd chin, 
 
 Saluted poor benighted Giles, 
 And ask'd him to walk in. 
 
 Then to the stable led his steed, 
 
 There saw him corn'd and dress'd; 
 
 Next to the house return'd with speed, 
 To entertain his guest. 
 
 Giles with his journey sick and tir'd, 
 
 Partook a short repast ; 
 But quickly for a bed inqnir'd, 
 
 Whereon his limbs to cast. 
 
 Unfortunate! the landlord said, 
 
 With comfortless grimace, — 
 Upon my word, there is no bed, 
 
 Good Sir, in all the place. 
 
 For we have such a throng this fair, 
 
 Of folks both far and wide, 
 That every crib we had to spare, 
 
 Is fully occupied. 
 
 Zounds ! cries Giles Heywood in a pet, 
 
 M isr I be lurn'd a drift; 
 Ain'nt I a customer ? then yet 
 
 You'll try to make a shift. 
 
320 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 Why, yes, the courteous host replied, 
 To ease his gath'ring cares ; 
 
 You may if you're so satisfied, 
 Sleep on the parlour chairs. 
 
 Nay, that expedient cannot do, 
 
 Says Giles, because you know 
 
 Your customers must all pass thro' 
 That room, where'er they go. 
 
 Besides, who could to sleep incline 
 When peril thus surrounds? 
 
 For know that in these bags of mine 
 Are full five hundred pounds. 
 
 Indeed, suspicion you might say, 
 Were needless and unjust; 
 
 But can you blame my caution, pray, 
 Or censure my distrust ? 
 
 Five hundred pounds you know's a sum 
 Not met with every where ; 
 
 And who can tell what rogues may come. 
 While I lay snoring there ? 
 
 With that the hostess courteously 
 Thus to Giles Hey wood said ; 
 
 A method, Sir, there yet may be, 
 For you to get a bed. 
 
THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HILL. 321 
 
 Our hostler has an outer room, 
 
 From this a little space, 
 We'll to a neighbour send the groom, 
 
 And you shall have his place. 
 
 I'll air fresh sheets, and make them dry : 
 
 The place itself is warm ; 
 There you may comfortably lie, 
 
 Secure from any harm. 
 
 With this the honest tradesman clos'd, 
 
 Being now in happier plight ; 
 Content he seeks the place propos'd, 
 
 And "bids them all good night. 
 
 Arriv'd, still cautious as before, 
 
 He views the chamber round; 
 With prudent care he bars the door, 
 
 And down the casements bound, 
 
 Fatigued and wearied with the way, 
 
 Himself he soon undress'd ; 
 Then in the conch his carcase lay, 
 
 Resign'd to balmy rest. 
 
 Sleep for some hours bound down his eyes, 
 
 All peaceful was the night ; 
 At length he wakes with sad surprise 
 
 With terror and affright. 
 T2 
 
 
322 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 Upon the stairs that hither led, 
 With solemn step and slow, 
 
 He heard the sound of mortal tread, 
 Re-echoing from below. 
 
 Near and more near the footsteps drew, 
 'Twas like a giant's pace; 
 
 Loud and more loud each footstep grew. 
 At length it reach' d the place. 
 
 With one rude dash bolts, locks, and all, 
 Fly from the yielding door ; 
 
 When, lo, a figure ghastly tall, 
 Stands on the chamber floor ! 
 
 One hand grasp'd an enormous knife, 
 
 The other held the light ; 
 Poor Giles now trembl'd for his life, 
 
 His soul dissolv'd with fright, 
 
 To his bed-side the spectre drew, 
 With death-like, solemn tread, 
 
 And wide the mantling curtains threw, 
 And shook his ghastly head ! 
 
 Next o'er his throat, in action dire, 
 
 draws his horrific blade ; 
 Then slowly offers to retire, . 
 
 Yet not one sentence said. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 333 
 
 Upon a table in the room, 
 
 The taper light he plac'd, 
 And from the mansion of the groom 
 
 His pond'rous march retrac'd. 
 
 Heavy as Cyclops' hammers fall, 
 
 When bolts they forg'd for Jove ; 
 
 So fell his footsteps, one and all, 
 As he was heard to move. 
 
 Throughout this scene, in doleful state, 
 
 The fear-struck merchant lay ; 
 At length o'ercome, sad to relate, 
 
 He sigh'd, and swoon'd away. 
 
 But startled nature soon returns, 
 
 He from his fit awakes ; 
 He sweats with fear, he pants, he burns ; 
 
 His hair stands up like stakes. 
 
 Confounded with the dreadful scene, 
 
 He knew not to suppose 
 What all these mysteries might mean, 
 
 Or whence the cause arose, 
 
 Still in its place the taper blaz'd, 
 
 This most poor Giles surpris'd ; 
 Upon the light the trav'ller gaz'd, I 
 
 And thus soliloquiz'd : — 
 
324 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 This is no visionary gleam, 
 
 My senses are aware ; 
 Or this adventure as a dream, 
 
 I might at once declare. 
 
 But here a real candle stands, 
 
 All visible to view ; 
 I see, can feel it with my hands; 
 
 Aye, and can smell it too. 
 
 Now that an incorporeal thing", 
 Which light as air might be, 
 
 Should stick and candle hither bring, 
 Seems wonderful to me. 
 
 Perhaps instead of spectre this 
 Might some foul robber be ; 
 
 Who came dispos'd, as like it is, 
 To rob and murder me. 
 
 But finding rue awake, the thief, 
 As all things make it plain, 
 
 Postponed his job, tho' my belief 
 Is he Mill come again. 
 
 ■&■ 
 
 But I must use such means to-night, 
 As are within my power ; 
 
 For by my watch it won't be light, 
 I see, this many an hour. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 323 
 
 Then out of bed Giles Heywood got 
 
 Upon the chamber floor; 
 And drew the massy bed, I wot, 
 
 Close up against the door. 
 
 Then down again himself he laid, 
 
 As he had been before ; 
 But terror on his mind so prey'd, 
 
 He slept not one wink more. 
 
 With panting heart, and aching head, 
 
 The fearful stranger lay ; 
 Counting the minutes as they fled, 
 
 And wishing for the day. 
 
 When, horrible ! once more he hears 
 
 The solemn footsteps sound ; 
 The noise increases on his ears, 
 
 And fears his soul confound. 
 
 Now as if fate Irad meant for fun, 
 
 The merchant to dismay ; 
 This very bed on castors run, 
 
 On which Giles Heywood lay. 
 
 With one rude thrust the giant sprite 
 
 Wide flung the chamber door; 
 The massy bedstead and the wight 
 
 Whirl'd o'er the chamber floor. 
 
326 THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 
 
 When in the horrid spectre stalk'd, 
 His hands besmear'd with blood ; 
 
 Up to the wight's bedside he walk'd, 
 And dreadful o'er him stood. 
 
 His head seem'd tow'ring thro' the roof; 
 
 His eyes like saucers glar'd ; 
 His foot in form became a hoof, 
 
 As on him wild he star'd. 
 
 Silent and mute the goblin stood, 
 His visage ting'd with gore ; 
 
 And on his blade were drops of blood, 
 Which was not so before. 
 
 No sense possess'd poor Heywood's heart, 
 
 Save terror and dismay ; 
 The spectre turning to depart, 
 
 In silence stalk'd away. 
 
 Once more the hapless man of hops 
 Fell in a deathlike trance ; 
 
 Despair convuls'd his haggard chops, 
 At this most strange mischance. 
 
 And long insensible he lay ; 
 
 And long he groan'd in grief ; 
 And long before returning day 
 
 Appear'd, to lend relief. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 327 
 
 But soon as reason had regain'd 
 
 Her throne so lately lost ; 
 And recollection had obtain'd 
 
 Possession of her post : 
 
 Giles Heywood to himself thus said, 
 
 'Tis passing' strange, 1 vow; 
 I ne'er was half so much afraid, 
 
 In all my life as now. 
 
 What can this visit dire portend, 
 
 Thus partial made to me ? 
 Sure some foul mischief doth impend, 
 
 Which I cannot foresee. 
 
 This apparition I have seen, 
 
 Is sure the suffriog- sprite 
 Of some poor wretch, that's murder' d been 
 
 About this plaee to-night. 
 
 O, there have been foul doings h^re, 
 
 His blood stain'd hands declare; 
 Or some impending danger's near, 
 
 Of which we're not aware. 
 
 But I will rise, unto the host 
 
 All that I know explain ; 
 No/ wait till this poor troubled ghost 
 
 Shall visit me again. 
 
328 THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HILL. 
 
 Then rose Giles Heywood, fill'd with fright, 
 Sprang o'er the chamber floor \ 
 
 Half naked, and e'er it was light, 
 Knock'd at the landlord's door. 
 
 The landlord bolted from his bed, 
 Tho' he could nought discern ; 
 
 Then thro' the casement thrust his head, 
 The cause of this to learn. 
 
 Who's there? (the half-wak'd landlord cried) 
 
 That knocks so furiously ? 
 Be not alarm'd, (poor Giles replied) 
 
 Good master host, 'tis I. 
 
 For God's sake straight unbar the door, 
 
 And let me shelter find ; 
 With what I've heard and seen I'm sure, 
 
 I'm scarce in my right mind ! 
 
 Soon as Giles Hey wood's voice he knew, 
 
 He made not stop nor stay ; 
 But to the door full quickly flew, 
 
 And let him in straightway. 
 
 Cold sweat his pallid face besmear'd, 
 He tugg'd and puffV for breath j 
 
 In fact this man of hops appear'd 
 Like one convuls'd in death. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HIIX. 329 
 
 His teeth they chatter'd in his head; 
 
 His eyes they wildly roll'd ; 
 Whilst on the host with speechless dread 
 
 In looks aghast he scowl'd. 
 
 Why, what's the matter ? cries the host, 
 
 What makes you look so pale ? 
 You look as if you'd seen a ghost; 
 
 Come, tell me what you ail. 
 
 O landlord ! 1 have seen a sight ! 
 
 Defend U9 from all evil ! 
 Would fill a santon with affright ; 
 
 I think I've seen the devil ! 
 
 Then straight Giles Heywood 'gan to tell 
 
 To him the wond'rous tale ; 
 With all that on that night befel : 
 
 The landlord's self grew pale. 
 
 heav'ns, the shiv'ring merchant cried, 
 
 Much do I fear, good host, 
 That some calamity betide 
 
 The visit of this ghost. 
 
 Either some murder there has been, 
 
 Or else shall soon be here; 
 For all those sights that I have seen 
 
 Portend ill things, I fear. 
 IT 2 
 
330 THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HlLL. 
 
 Up to his wife the master ran, 
 And rous'd her from repose ; 
 
 Tho' stout, our host was no stout man 
 In such affairs as those. 
 
 To her with aggravations join'd, 
 He told the wond'rous tale ; 
 
 She listens, terror fills her mind, 
 And she likewise grew pale. 
 
 Down came the pot girls from their bed ; 
 
 The chambermaids and cooks; 
 Fear, like a fell contagion, spread, 
 
 And terror mark'd their looks. 
 
 The guests came down a num'rous train, 
 
 To them the tale was told • 
 Conjecture rack'd its powers in vain, 
 
 The matter to unfold. 
 
 Invention thro' her store-rooms rov'd, 
 The strange still stranger grew ; 
 
 And every time the tale improv'd, 
 That it was told anew. 
 
 Each worder'd what the thing might mean, 
 
 For it was wond'rous odd, 
 And what friend Giles that night had seen, 
 
 Some mischief must forbode. 
 
THE SPECTRE OF WEIGH HILL. 331 
 
 And each pray'd from this dire portent 
 The whole that heav'n would free; 
 
 At least each pray'd that the event 
 Touch'd any one but he. 
 
 The hostess of this inn, good Sir, 
 
 Was reckon'd shrude and smart ; 
 
 A kind of thought occurr'd to her, 
 Which made her rather start. 
 
 Where is our hostler, do you know ? 
 
 Says the presaging wife ; 
 He should have been here long ago, 
 
 Two hours since on my life. 
 
 You know last night we sent him out 
 
 Fresh quarters to obtain ; 
 For him I'm in a fearful doubt, 
 
 Being not return' d again. 
 
 They seareh'd the stable yard around, 
 
 The hay loft and the barn ; 
 But hostler there they no where found, 
 
 Nor aught of him could learn. 
 
 So all unanimous believ'd 
 
 Poor Crop was gone to pot ; 
 And all the sad misfortune griev'd, 
 
 Let it be true or not. 
 
332 THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HILE. 
 
 At length the long- sought hostler came, 
 The news like wild fire spread ; 
 
 The honest master and his dame 
 
 Were now both free from dread. 
 
 Yet what those wond'rous things could mean, 
 Not one of them could guess ; 
 
 Tho' what poor Giles last night had seen 
 Meant something more or less. 
 
 Now Crop was to the kitchen brought, 
 
 The wond'rous tale to hear ; 
 They told him, nor abated aught 
 
 That might excite his fear. 
 
 The hostler heard the fearful tale 
 
 Of horror and affright ; 
 But when they thought he should grow pale, 
 
 He laugh'd at them outright. 
 
 Now twenty guineas would I hold, 
 
 The snigg'ring hostler cries, 
 That I the secret could unfold, 
 
 Which caus'd this strange surprise. 
 
 Good master, yesterday, you knew 
 
 'Twas fully our design, 
 To-day, if nothing should accrue, 
 
 To rise and kill the swine. 
 
THE SPECTRE OP WEIGH HILL. -333 
 
 And he, the ghost so vastly rum, 
 
 So terrible and big, 
 Was just poor Ralph that's deaf and dumb, 
 
 Who came to kill the pig. 
 
 He knew the chamber where each night 
 
 I slept, and I suppose, 
 He left the candle that I might 
 
 See to put on my clothes. 
 
 But doubtless, thinking as I staid, 
 
 That I was sleeping still, 
 He very likely had essay'd 
 
 Himself the pig to kill. 
 
 Succeeding, he'd return'd with speed 
 
 To shew me all was done; 
 From this no doubt on't did proceed 
 
 This wond'rous piece of fun. 
 
NED STAUNTON.— A TALE. 
 
 X WAS at a time, in London known full well 
 By all the band of 'prentices from far; 
 At least, by all that numerous host who dwell 
 Betwixt the Minories and Temple Bar. 
 
 In fine, 'twas boxing-night, when merchant cits 
 To see George Barnwell send their new-fledg'd 
 clerks, 
 
 To fill the whole of boxes, galleries, pits, 
 
 Instead of strolling thro' the streets and parks. 
 
 There, from th' example of the hapless youth, 
 In hopes impressions durable to take ; 
 
 And that the paths of honesty and truth, 
 
 These rural blades of theirs would ne'er forsake. 
 
 By hostile frosts, from Oxford to Gravesend, 
 Bound was the Thames, nor boat nor barge could 
 
 p'y' 
 
 And well were those who then had coals to vend, 
 And woe were those who then bad coals to buy. 
 
- NED STAUNTON. 335 
 
 Dark as at midnight hung the fogs of noon, 
 The streets were heap'd with mingled sool and 
 snow ; 
 
 Nor yet by day or night, the sun or moon 
 
 Peep'd out their heads to cheer the world below. 
 
 No hackney coaches then along the street 
 
 Durst, without torches, ply, ev'n at mid-day; 
 
 And people scarcely trusted their own feet, 
 So dark the weather, and so bad the way. 
 
 From Covent Garden's walks the cyprian band 
 Are forced to shuffle off; unhappy train ! 
 
 Unable longer to maintain their stand, 
 Or at St. Giles's, or at Drury-lane. 
 
 But in their attic haunts, in rueful plight, 
 
 Sat pleasure's daughters, close immur'd as cats; 
 
 With scarcely half a pint of gin for night, 
 
 But guzzling common tiff, and broiling sprats. 
 
 From street to street, with lamentable cry, 
 Range the poor gardeners, neglected crew; 
 
 Many with insult pitiless pass by, 
 
 But to relieve their pinching wants how few. 
 
 Now closely rang'd around each tap-room fire, 
 Porters and hackney coachmen mingling throng; 
 
 Where all to baffle winter's rage conspire, 
 With the warm tankard and the jocund song. 
 
336 NED STAUNTON. - 
 
 Along Fleet-market stand the starv'ling group 
 Of fish-fags, green-grocers,and who knows what ? 
 
 Some eating hot plum-pudding, some pea-soup ; 
 Or any warm repast they can come at. 
 
 But citizens possess'd of better means, 
 
 Unlike those groupes their holidays employ ; 
 
 Unconscious of such sufF rings and such scenes, 
 In each excess of revelry enjoy. 
 
 Here at the mansion house, or at Guildhall, 
 Fat aldermen encircle my lord mayor, 
 
 Children of Epicurus, one and all, 
 The treats of our prime magistrate to share. 
 
 O'er fatten'd haunch, and equal fat surloin, 
 Or luscious turtle, this voluptuous throng, 
 
 At plenty's carnival devoutly join, — 
 
 Nor think of woes to millions that belong. 
 
 Streams of madeira, sherry, and champaign, 
 Or toka exquisite, are guzzled down ; 
 
 Nay, for one dinner goes what might maintain, 
 For half a year, the poor of all the town. 
 
 Pride by example ever whirl'd along, 
 
 Howe'er superior that example be, 
 Tempts the rich trading citizens, who throng 
 
 To share the banquet and festivity. 
 
 
NED STAtrNTON. 337 
 
 These at the Crown and Anchor Tavern meet, 
 Or place such like, some lordling at their head ; 
 
 There pay a guinea, and their dinner eat ; 
 That ended, all get drunk, and go to bed. 
 
 Compare with these the famish'd tribes who dwell 
 Round Spittalfields, and Clerkenwell; and then 
 
 Say, if from conscience yon can justly tell, 
 If these voluptuaries act like men. 
 
 A small retrenchment in their vast expence, 
 A small privation from this vast excess, 
 
 Might save from misery sinking indigence, 
 
 And with its surplus more than thousands bless. 
 
 When now the wealthy, with luxuriant cheer, 
 The festive jollities of Christmas taste, 
 
 Let them but for a moment pause and hear 
 
 The plaints of those in wretchedness that waste. 
 
 Look thro' the prison's solitary cells, 
 
 The noisome jail, misfortune's sad retreat, 
 
 Where wasting care, and perfect sorrow dwells. 
 And human woes in one sad focus meet. 
 
 To view this scene but for a while consent, 
 This scene of want, of mis'ry, and of grief: 
 
 The heart, howeer obdurate must relent, 
 No longer can the hand withhold relief. 
 x2 
 
338 NED STAUNTON. 
 
 But yet I would not damp the jocund hour, 
 Or spread dejection o'er the gen'rous soul, 
 
 Or peevishly the sweets of others sour, 
 
 Anddash from pleasure's hand th' enliv'ning bowl. 
 
 No, 'tis the season custom gives for joy, 
 
 Let those that can, seize on the fav'ring gale, 
 
 In pleasures rational the times employ : 
 Uninterrupted I pursue my tale. 
 
 Ned Staunton held the office of a clerk 
 
 In a large counting house, close by St. Paul's — 
 
 Where oft most noise and bustle we remark, 
 Where many an oyster wench melodious squalls. 
 
 This noise to office work of ev'ry sort 
 Is incommodious, as all clerks can tell ; 
 
 But Ned so careful manag'd, that, in short, 
 He kept his journels and his ledgers well. 
 
 Being Christmas, those who had him in employ 
 Gave him, as still is usual at this season, 
 
 A Christmas box, wherewith he might enjoy, 
 Any amusement that agreed with reason. 
 
 Now Ned like thousands more went to the play, 
 Saw Barnwell, which he'd often seen before; 
 
 Hooted, and clapp'd by turns the piece away, 
 Or, if a passage pleas'd him, roar'd encore. 
 
NED STAUNTON. -339 
 
 A member of a free and easy club 
 
 Was honest Staunton, held in Fetter-lane, 
 
 Where oft they met o'er politics to grub, 
 Sit up till twelve, then stagger home again. 
 
 Soon as play was over our friend Ned, 
 On whom this narrative alone depends, 
 
 Thinking 1 it far too soon to go to bed, 
 Set off to Fetter-lane to join his friends. 
 
 Then with the catch, the chorus, and the glee, 
 Those sons of jollity the evening pass'd ! 
 
 Smoak d, drunk, and sung, till it was half past three ; 
 Then thought it time to set off home at last. 
 
 Drunk as a pig, Ned tumbled into bed, 
 Not having time to get himself undress'd; 
 
 The liquor had so stupified his head, 
 That in five minutes he had got to rest. 
 
 Loud as a bull frog, did poor Staunton snore ; 
 
 Comus and Morpheus held him down so deep: 
 When lo, a boistrous knocking at his door 
 
 Awoke our hero from his death-like sleep. 
 
 Up in a moment starting on his breech, 
 
 With wild confusion fill "d he stares around; 
 
 Terror denied his tongue the power of speech ; 
 And one short ha ! was all his utt 1 ranee found. 
 
340 NED STAUNTON. 
 
 A giant figure, horrible and grim, 
 In dreadful attitude stood by his bed; 
 
 With fear convuls'd, he shook thro' every limb, 
 Nor dared a moment turn aside his head. 
 
 No common form the direful spectre wore ; 
 
 Vast were his eyes, and huge his giant frame ; 
 A massy club in his right haud he bore, 
 
 And round his body play'd a lambent flame. 
 
 At last this form his aweful silence broke ; 
 
 In cadence well might that of Stentor mock — 
 And thus the dreadful apparition spoke, 
 
 In words distinct enough, " past four o'clock. 1 ' 
 
 Sir I'm the watchman passing by this way, 
 As I am wont, to try if all's secure ; — 
 
 T found you had neglected, Sir, I say, 
 I found you had forgot to shut your door. 
 
 Ned thank'd the watchman, banish'd his own fears, 
 Got up and made the door, and then right soon, 
 
 Soused into bed again, o'er head and ears ; 
 There lay and snored away till it was noon. 
 
MARY THE MAID OF THE MOOR. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 VV HY glimmers yon taper so pale, 
 By the side of that dark lonely glade? 
 
 And whence on the whispering gale 
 
 Are those low hollow murmurs convey'd? 
 
 The night — it is dreary and cold, 
 
 And cold drives the shower on the gale ; 
 
 No light on ail sides I behold, 
 
 But yon taper that glimmers so pale. 
 
 0, sad is the cause of that light, 
 
 That gleams by yon coppice so drear; 
 
 But, trav'ller, turn in here to-night, 
 And to-morrow the tale you shall hear. 
 
 For see o'er the black western sky 
 The tempest beginning to rise; 
 
 The storm will be here bye and bye, 
 As the light you see yonder implies. 
 
342 MARY THE MAID 
 
 For ne'er does it shine by the glade, 
 But when mischief or danger are near; 
 
 Turn, turn, for I'm greatly afraid, 
 The tempest will quickly be here. 
 
 The stranger, he turn'd to the cot, 
 The peasant, he smil'd on his guest, 
 
 He gave him such fare as he'd got, 
 And e'er long they retir'd to their rest, 
 
 But when they arose the next morn, 
 The host not in promise to fail, 
 
 Saluted the stranger forlorn, 
 
 And thus he went on with his tale. 
 
 Young Mary that liv'd on the moor, 
 I weep when I mention that name, 
 
 Was beautiful, tho' she was poor, 
 
 The neighbours can tell you the same. 
 
 The rose-bud that blush'd in her cheek, 
 The lustre that beam'd in her eye, 
 
 The touch of no artist could speak, 
 As few beauties with Mary could vie. 
 
 She was mild as the morning in May, 
 She was affable as she was fair, 
 
 She was sensible tho' she was gay, 
 And of wit had a competent share. 
 
Of THE MOOR. 313 
 
 Young Richard, a gay neighbouring swain, 
 
 To her oft his passion would tell, 
 To her he implor'd not in vain, 
 
 For poor Mary soon lov'd him too well. 
 
 But ah ! most unfortunate maid, 
 
 Without tears can thy tale be express'd ? 
 
 Thy fondness was basely betray'd, 
 And I weep when I think of the rest. 
 
 In the hamlet just over the green, 
 
 A farmer there liv'd just hard by ; 
 A right honest neighbour, I ween, 
 
 Which nobody dares to deny. 
 
 One night as he slept in his bed, 
 
 Render'd sweet by the toils of the day, 
 
 Strange visions came into his head, 
 That awoke him with fearful dismay. 
 
 And twice had he dreamt the same dream, 
 Twice again had address 1 d him to rest; 
 
 But fancy the wonderful theme 
 
 On his mind had most strongly impress'd. 
 
 He dreamt from a field close at hand, 
 His oxen, which there feeding lay, 
 
 Some xillains who rayaer'd the land 
 That instant were driving away. 
 
344 MARY THE MAID 
 
 The third time he awoke from his dream, 
 He arose at the dead of the night, 
 
 Resolv'd, tho' absurd it might seem, 
 Not to wait for the coming of light. 
 
 He call'd for his carter amain, 
 
 The night it was dreary and dark ; 
 
 He call'd him again and again, 
 To go with him down to the park. 
 
 No carter was there to be found, 
 So the other two servants he rais'd, 
 
 And away they set off to the ground, 
 Where the oxen had recently graz'd. 
 
 No object presented to sight, 
 
 Man nor mortal around could they see, 
 
 Till they drew near the place where a light 
 They beheld on the branch of a tree. 
 
 The lanthorn was quickly brought down ; 
 
 The farmer could scarce trust his eyes, 
 Perceiving that it was his own, 
 
 Which alarm 'd him, and rais'd their surprise. 
 
 Nor far had they gone on their way, 
 Ere they came to a grave newly made ; 
 
 And close by the opening lay, 
 
 The farmer's own mattock and spade. 
 
of Tiir. moor. 34-3 
 
 Amazement each countenance spread. 
 
 Whilst terror beat high in each breast ; 
 They view'd the dire objects with dread. 
 
 As their fear silent wonder express" d. 
 
 W hen presently thro' the dark lane, 
 
 Thev saw one coming slow and demure ; 
 
 A female thev saw it was plain, 
 
 'Twas Alary the Maid oi the Moor. 
 
 The farmer, when Mary he spied, 
 
 With wonder the damsel survey'd, 
 Ah ! where are you going, he cried. 
 
 Come answer me, sweet prettv maid. 
 
 The sky it is dismally dark. 
 
 And far past the dread midnight hour. 
 The tempest is up, do but hark. 
 
 How it howls thro' yon old rnin'd tow'r. 
 
 But long had the farmer to press, 
 
 Ere Mary consented to speak : 
 Her silence betray'd her distress. 
 
 And confusion had crimson'd her cheek. 
 
 At length said the falt'ring maid, 
 
 I came to meet Richard my dear ; 
 Ah me! I am sadly afraid. 
 
 As 1 have not yet met with him here. 
 Y 9 
 
340 MARY THE MAID 
 
 O Mary, the farmer replied, 
 
 Thou had reason to fear hadst thou known ; 
 Fate has sent me thy footsteps to guide, 
 
 Tho' the errand I thought was my own. 
 
 That Richard you foolishly lov'd, 
 Who promis'd to make you his wife. 
 
 That miscreant a traitor has prov'd, 
 And has basely- conspir'd at your life. 
 
 Behold here this deep yawning- grave, 
 
 Doubtless this night was meant for your bed, 
 
 Was dug by that villainous slave, 
 But on hearing us coming, he fled. 
 
 The face of poor Mary grew pale, 
 She shook and she bitterly sigh'd, 
 
 As the farmer rehears' d the sad tale, 
 
 But to which the poor girl ne'er replied. 
 
 The terror had lock'd up her tongue, 
 And she struggled for utt' ranee in. vain, 
 
 Her groans and convulsions were strong, 
 And distraction had phrenzied her brain. 
 
 The poor hapless fair one they led, 
 From still farther wrongs to secure ; 
 
 And gently bestow'd hf.r in bed, 
 
 At her cottage that stands on the moor. 
 
OF THE MOOR. 347 
 
 But Mary was silent in grief, 
 
 She slept not, she wept not at all. 
 The tears, so oft sorrow's relief, 
 
 Refus'd from their sluices to fall. 
 
 Nor once was she heard to complain, 
 
 Sensation appear' d to be fled ; 
 A fever had seiz'd on her brain, 
 
 And in four days poor Mary was dead. 
 
 But he, her seducer, was flown, 
 
 Tho' justice will yet on him light ; 
 And tho' nothing 1 is e'er of him known, 
 
 Since the working of that fatal night. 
 
 Yet oft when fell danger is near, 
 
 O'er the marks of the tempest we trace, 
 
 Those howlings we commonly hear, 
 And a light is still seen at the place. 
 
 Thus hence burns the taper so pale, 
 
 Bv the side of you dark, dreary glade; 
 
 And hence on the whisp'ring gale, 
 
 Are those low hollow murmurs convev'd. 
 
AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF JOHANNA SOUTHCOTT. 
 
 J OHN Bull, thou art a weary sot, 
 
 Pretending to be witty ! 
 Tho' many people say thou'rt not, 
 
 And so much more the pity ! 
 
 Thou'rt cheated, hoax'd, and humbug' d so, 
 That one would think thee doting j 
 
 In sooth, thy sense has sunk so low, 
 Delirium 'tis denoting. 
 
 Britannia once both far and near 
 For common sense was famous ; 
 
 But now surrounding states we hear, 
 Call her an ignoramus. 
 
 There's not a year, a week, a day, 
 
 So prov'd to all the fact is ; 
 But what imposture in some way 
 
 Upon poor Bull will practise. 
 
 Hard times — mad dogs — flat-bottom'd boats- 
 With wapping plagues — invasions — 
 
 Are made to fill the people's throats 
 On fifty like occasions. 
 
AN ELEGY. W9 
 
 One beldam fasts for seven years, — 
 
 Gets fat by these pretences ; 
 Another wretch inspir'd appears, 
 
 Because she's lost her senses. 
 
 A comet, with a fiery tale, 
 
 Now threatens desolation, 
 A Hamburgh, or a Brussell's mail, 
 
 Spreads equal consternation. 
 
 Last year a man in childbed died, 
 
 How folly does but lark it ! 
 Yet no great wonder, people cried, 
 
 As 'twas so near Clare Market. 
 
 But sure of all the humbug stuff, 
 
 Since nonsense such a growth got, 
 There's not an hoax, 'tis plain enough, 
 
 To match Johanna Southcott. 
 
 Johanna, sure that fated name 
 
 Hath something mystic near it ; 
 As they have all been mark'd by fame, 
 
 Whose hap it was to wear it. 
 
 There's her of Arc, next she, the Pope, 
 
 With her of Arragona : 
 But best and last, this kingdom's hope, 
 
 Our Devonshire Madona. 
 
 Our poor John Bull, thou hast a skull 
 
 Of thickness most uncommon : 
 But to be fool'd was vastly dull 
 
 By such a craz'd old woman. 
 
350 AN ELEGY. 
 
 To think that she at sixty-three 
 Would e'er bring forth a Shilo; 
 
 To be incarn'd of any he, 
 Absurdity, most vile O ! 
 
 You doting- dames, both far and near, 
 Who've sometimes done a slack trick, 
 
 Don't fear the three and sixtieth year, 
 That notable climactric ! 
 
 'Tis nine times seven, or seven times nine, 
 
 A most important crisis ! 
 When ladies oft'ner seek death's shrine, 
 
 Than think of carnal vices. 
 
 Johanna's fate a warning- be, 
 
 Strong- as Athenian rhet'ric, 
 To those wh' expect at sixty -three 
 
 The aid of an obstetric. 
 
 Good Mrs. Townly ! pious sage ! 
 
 Ann Underwood — thou also ! 
 Ye Magdalenes of this our age, 
 
 Whom justly we may call so. 
 
 What will become of you? good lack ! 
 
 That now Johanna's rotten ; 
 Why, droop your tales, sneak off, fall back, 
 
 And try to be forgotten. 
 
 And ye Johannians, poor and rich, 
 What are you now a thinking? 
 
 Whose noses this deluded witch 
 Have verily felt stinking. 
 
AN ELEGY. $?M 
 
 No Shilo heaves her sterile womb, 
 
 And not ev'n Dr. Towser, 
 When she's laid in the silent tomb, 
 
 To life again shall rouse her. 
 
 And yet what pity 'tis that one 
 
 With falsehood fill'd, and maggot, 
 
 Has to the grave in quiet gone, 
 More worthy of a faggot. 
 
 To justice and to common sense 
 
 Was a more righteous tribute, 
 Than this old hag for this offence 
 
 T' have tuck'd upon a gibbet. 
 
 There would her vot'ries still have seen 
 
 There much ador'd impostor, 
 And she a lasting scarecrow been, 
 
 So long as winds had tossd her. 
 
 Yet who can say's the most to blame, 
 
 Of all this sect unhallow'd? 
 She who Millenium durst proclaim, 
 
 Or knaves and fools that follow'd? 
 
 She had an interest in the fraud, 
 
 Whilst so, perhaps, had many ; 
 And such of those we must applaud, 
 
 Who seek an honest penny. 
 
 But who'd have thought, commix'd with these, 
 
 Her followers vile, or silly, 
 Here to have met with t>r. Reece, 
 
 Great Reece of Piccadilly ! 
 
352 AN ELEGY. 
 
 And would you, Sir, have held a bet, 
 
 I mean a trifling 1 wager ? 
 Amongst Johanna's flock t' have met 
 
 One proselyte, a major ! 
 
 Yet say, what station high, or low, 
 Can shield us from Vesania ; 
 
 Ev'n princes have, ere now, we know, 
 Had d iff 'rent sorts of mania. 
 
 But now she's gone, so let her go, 
 And all her nonsense with her : 
 
 Old Nick had ne'er her like below, 
 So let him take her thither. 
 
 "Tis plain her reveries and stuff, 
 Would fill all hell with laughter ; 
 
 And if her sect ha'n't got enough, 
 Just let them follow after. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 WARDLK, PRINTER, MANCHESTER. 
 
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