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WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.

HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.

WITH A GLOSSARY.

REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,

One of the Original Editors and Contributors.

VOL. XXIV.

LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884

CONTENTS.

THE MINSTREL'S TALES—

I. EDMUND AND HELEN, (John Mackay Wilson), 5

II. THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE
LADY ETHELINE,…… (Alexander Leighton), 43

III. THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL, (Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 52

IV. THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE,
(Alexander Leighton),………………… 57

V. THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA,…….(Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 67

VI. THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE,
(Alexander Leighton),………………… 72

VII. THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR,
(Alexander Leighton),………………… 78

VIII. THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND,
(Alexander Leighton),………………… 87

IX. THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE,…….(_Alexander
Leighton),………………………….. 98

X. THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH,…(Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 107

XI. THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN,…..(_Alexander
Leighton),………………………….. 113

XII. THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS,…(John Mackay
Wilson),…………………………….. 119

XIII. THE BALLAD OF RUMBOLLOW,….(Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 123

XIV. THE LEGEND OF THE BURNING OF MRS. JAMPHRAY,
…………….(Alexander Leighton),….. 133

XV. THE BALLAD OF BALLOGIE'S DAUGHTERS,……..
(Alexander Leighton),………………… 141

XVI. THE LEGEND OF DOWIELEE,……..(Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 145

XVII. THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION,….(Alexander
Leighton),……………………………. 154

XVIII. THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE,………
(Alexander Leighton),…………………. 158

XIX. THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY,…..(Alexander
Leighton),……………………………. 160

XX. THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL,…(Alexander
Leighton),……………………………. 164

XXI. THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY,……._(Alexander
Leighton),…………………………… 168

XXII. THE SONG OF ROSALIE, ………(Alexander
Leighton),……………………………. 171

XXIII. THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY,…….
(Alexander Leighton),…………………. 173

XXIV. THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE,……..(_John
Mackay Wilson),………………………. 177

XXV. FAREWELL TO A PLACE ON THE BORDERS,…….
(Rev. W.G.),…………………………. 207

GLOSSARY,……………………………….. 211

GENERAL INDEX,…………………………… 251

WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE MINSTREL'S TALES.

I.

EDMUND AND HELEN.

CANTO FIRST.

Come, sit thee by me, love, and thou shalt hear
A tale may win a smile and claim a tear—
A plain and simple story told in rhyme,
As sang the minstrels of the olden time.
No idle Muse I'll needlessly invoke—
No patron's aid, to steer me from the rock
Of cold neglect round which oblivion lies;
But, loved one, I will look into thine eyes,
From which young poesy first touched my soul,
And bade the burning words in numbers roll;—
They were the light in which I learned to sing;
And still to thee will kindling fancy cling—
Glow at thy smile, as when, in younger years,
I've seen thee smiling through thy maiden tears,
Like a fair floweret bent with morning dew,
While sunbeams kissed its leaves of loveliest hue.
Thou wert the chord and spirit of my lyre—
Thy love the living voice that breathed—"aspire!"—
That smoothed ambition's steep and toilsome height,
And in its darkest paths was round me, light.
Then, sit thee by me, love, and list the strain,
Which, but for thee, had still neglected lain.

II.

Didst thou e'er mark, within a beauteous vale,
Where sweetest wild-flowers scent the summer gale,
And the blue Tweed, in silver windings, glides,
Kissing the bending branches on its sides,
A snow-white cottage, one that well might seem
A poet's picture of contentment's dream?
Two chestnuts broad and tall embower the spot,
And bend in beauty o'er the peaceful cot;
The creeping ivy clothes its roof with green,
While round the door the perfumed woodbine's seen
Shading a rustic arch; and smiling near,
Like rainbow fragments, blooms a rich parterre;
Grey, naked crags—a steep and pine-clad hill—
A mountain chain and tributary rill—
A distant hamlet and an ancient wood,
Begirt the valley where the cottage stood.
That cottage was a young Enthusiast's home,
Ere blind ambition lured his steps to roam;
He was a wayward, bold, and ardent boy,
At once his parents' grief—their hope and joy.
Men called him Edmund.—Oft his mother wept
Beside the couch where yet her schoolboy slept,
As, starting in his slumbers, he would seem
To speak of things of which none else might dream.

III.

Adown the vale a stately mansion rose,
With arboured lawns, like visions of repose
Serene in summer loveliness, and fair
As if no passion e'er was dweller there
Save innocence and love; for they alone
Within the smiling vale of peace were known.
But fairer and more lovely far than all,
Like Spring's first flowers, was Helen of the Hall—
The blue-eyed daughter of the mansion's lord,
And living image of a wife adored,
But now no more; for, ere a lustrum shed
Its smiles and sunshine o'er the infant's head,
Death, like a passing spirit, touched the brow
Of the young mother; and the father now
Lived as a dreamer on his daughter's face,
That seemed a mirror wherein he could trace
The long lost past—the eyes of love and light,
Which his fond soul had worshipped, ere the night
Of death and sorrow sealed those eyes in gloom—
Darkened his joys, and whelmed them in the tomb.

IV.

Young Edmund and fair Helen, from the years
Of childhood's golden joys and passing tears,
Were friends and playmates; and together they
Across the lawn, or through the woods, would stray.
While he was wont to pull the lilies fair,
And weave them, with the primrose, round her hair;—
Plait toys of rushes, or bedeck the thorn
With daisies sparkling with the dews of morn;
While she, these simple gifts would grateful take—-
Love for their own and for the giver's sake.
Or, they would chase the butterfly and bee
From flower to flower, shouting in childish glee;
Or hunt the cuckoo's echo through the glade,
Chasing the wandering sound from shade to shade.
Or, if she conned the daily task in vain,
A word from Edmund made the lesson plain.

V.

Thus years rolled by in innocence and truth,
And playful childhood melted into youth,
As dies the dawn in rainbows, ray by ray
In blushing beauty stealing into day.
And thus too passed, unnoticed and unknown,
The sports of childhood, fleeting one by one.
Like broken dreams, of which we neither know
From whence they come, nor mark we when they go.
Yet would they stray where Tweed's fair waters glide,
As we have wandered—fondly side by side;
And when dun gloaming's shadows o'er it stole
As silence visible—until the soul
Grew tranquil as the scene—then would they trace
The deep'ning shadows on the river's face—
A voiceless world, where glimmered, downward far,
Inverted mountain, tree, and cloud, and star.
'Twas Edmund's choicest scene, and he would dwell
On it, till he grew eloquent, and tell
Its beauties o'er and o'er, until the maid
Knew every gorgeous tint and mellowed shade
Which evening from departed sunbeams threw,
And as a painter on the waters drew.

VI.

Or, when brown Autumn touched the leaves with age,
The heavens became the young Enthusiast's page
Wherein his fancy read; and they would then,
Hand locked in hand, forsake the haunts of men;
Communing with the silver queen of night,
Which, as a spirit, shone upon their sight,
Full orbed in maiden glory; and her beams
Fell on their hearts, like distant shadowed gleams
Of future joy and undefinèd bliss—
Half of another world and half of this.
Then, rapt in dreams, oft would he gazing stand,
Grasping in his her fair and trembling hand,
And thus exclaim, "Helen, when I am gone,
When that bright moon shall shine on you alone,
And but one shadow on the river fall—
Say, wilt thou then these heavenly hours recall?
Or read, upon the fair moon's smiling brow
The words we've uttered—those we utter now?
Or think, though seas divide us, I may be
Gazing upon that glorious orb with thee
At the same moment—hearing, in its rays,
The hallowed whisperings of early days!
For, oh, there is a language in its calm
And holy light, that hath a power to balm
The troubled spirit, and like memory's glass,
Make bygone happiness before us pass."

VII.

Or, they would gaze upon the evening star,
Blazing in beauteous glory from afar,
Dazzling its kindred spheres, and bright o'er all,
Like LOVE on the Eternal's coronal;
Until their eyes its rays reflected, threw
In glances eloquent—though words were few;
For well I ween, it is enough to feel
The power of such an hour upon us steal,
As if a holy spirit filled the air,
And nought but love and silence might be there—
Or whispers, which, like Philomel's soft strains,
Are only heard to tell that silence reigns.
Yet, he at times would break the hallowed spell,
And thus in eager rhapsodies would dwell
Upon the scene: "O'er us rolls world on world,
Like the Almighty's regal robes unfurled;—
O'erwhelming, dread, unbounded, and sublime—
Eternity's huge arms that girdle time
And roll around it, marking out the years
Of this dark spot of sin amidst the spheres!
For, oh, while gazing upon worlds so fair,
'Tis hard to think that sin has entered there;
That those bright orbs which now in glory swim,
Should e'er for man's ingratitude be dim!
Bewildered, lost, I cast mine eyes abroad,
And read on every star the name of GOD!
The thought o'erwhelms me!—Yet, while gazing on
Yon star of love, I cannot feel alone;
For wheresoe'er my after lot may be,
That evening star shall speak of home and thee.
Fancy will view it o'er yon mountain's brow
That sleeps in solitude before us now;
While memory's lamp shall kindle at its rays,
And light the happy scenes of other days—
Such scenes as this; and then the very breeze
That with it bears the odour of the trees,
And gathers up the meadow's sweet perfume,
From off my clouded brow, shall chase the gloom
Of sick'ning absence; for the scented air
To me wafts back remembrance, as the prayer
Of lisping childhood is remembered yet,
Like living words, which we can ne'er forget."

VIII.

Till now, their life had been one thought of joy,
A vision time was destined to destroy—
As dies the dewy network on the thorn,
Before the sunbeams, with the mists of morn.
Thus far their lives in one smooth current ran—
They loved, yet knew not when that love began,
And hardly knew they loved; though it had grown
A portion of their being, and had thrown
Its spirit o'er them; for its shoots had sprung
Up in their hearts, while yet their hearts were young;
Even like the bright leaves of some wandering seed,
Which Autumn's breezes bear across the mead,
O'er naked wild and mountain, till the wind,
Dropping its gift, a stranger flower we find.
And with their years the kindling feeling grew,
But grew unnoticed, and no change they knew;
For it had grown, even as a bud displays
Its opening beauties—one on which we gaze,
Yet note no seeming change from hour to hour,
But find, at length, the bud a lovely flower.

IX.

Thus, thrice six golden summers o'er them fled,
And on their hearts their rip'ning influence shed;
Till one fair eve, when from the gorgeous west,
Cloud upon cloud in varied splendour pressed
Around the setting sun, which blinding shone
On the horizon like its Maker's throne,
Till veiled in glory, and its parting ray
Fell as a blessing on the closing day;
Or, like the living smile of Nature's God
Upon his creatures, shedding peace abroad.
The early lark had ceased its evening song,
And silence reigned amidst the feathered throng,
Save where the chaffinch, with unvarying strain,
Its short, sweet line of music trilled again;
Or where the stock-dove, from the neighbouring grove,
Welcomed the twilight with the voice of love:
Then Edmund wandered by the trysting-tree,
Where, at that hour, the maid was wont to be;
But now she came not. Deepening shade on shade,
The night crept round him; still he lonely strayed,
Gazed on the tree till grey its foliage grew,
And stars marked midnight, ere he slow withdrew.
Another evening came—a third passed on—
And wondering, fearing, still he stood alone,
Trembling and gazing on her father's hall,
Where lights were glittering as a festival;
And, as with cautious step he ventured near,
Sounds of glad music burst upon his ear,
And figures glided in the circling dance,
While wild his love and poverty at once
Flashed through his bursting heart, and smote him now
As if a thunderbolt had scorched his brow,
And scathed his very spirit; as he stood,
Mute as despair—the ghost of solitude!

X.

Strange guests were revelling at the princely hall—
Proud peers and ladies fair; but, chief of all,
A rich and haughty knight, from Beaumont side,
Who came to woo fair Helen as his bride;
Or rather from her father ask her hand,
And woo no more, but deem consent command.
He too was young, high-born, and bore a name
Sounding with honours bought, though not with fame;
And the consent he sought her father gave,
Nor feared the daughter of his love would brave
In aught his wishes, or oppose his will;
For she had ever sought it, as the rill
Seeketh the valley or the ocean's breast;
And ere his very wishes were expressed,
She strove to trace their meaning in his eyes,
Even as a seaman readeth on the skies
The coming breeze, the calm, or brooding gale,
Then spreads the canvas wide, or reefs the sail.
Nor did he doubt that still her heart was free
As the fleet mountain deer, which as a sea
The wilderness surrounds; for she had grown
Up as a desert flower, that he alone
Had watched and cherished; and the blinding pride
Of wealth and ancestry had served to hide
From him alone, what long within the vale
Had been the rustic gossip's evening tale.
That such presumptuous love could e'er employ
The secret fancies of the cottage boy,
He would have held impossible, or smiled
At the bold madness of a thought so wild—-
Reading his daughter's spirit by his own,
Which reared an ancient name as virtue's throne,
And only stooped to look on meaner things,
Whose honours echoed not the breath of kings.

XI.

Wild were the passions, fierce the anguish now,
Which tore the very soul, and clothed the brow
Of the Enthusiast; while gaunt despair
Its heavy, cold, and iron hand laid bare,
And in its grasp of torture clenched his heart,
Till, one by one, the life-drops seemed to start
In agony unspeakable: within
His breast its freezing shadow—dark as sin,
Gloomy as death, and desolate as hell—
Like starless midnight on his spirit fell,
Burying his soul in darkness; while his love,
Fierce as a whirlwind, in its madness strove
With stern despair, as on the field of wrath
The wounded war-horse, panting, strives with death.
Then as the conflict weakened, hope would dash
Across his bosom, like the death-winged flash
That flees before the thunder; yet its light
Lived but a moment, leaving deeper night
Around the strife of passions; and again
The struggle maddened, and the hope was vain.

XII.

He heard the maidens of the valley say,
How they upon their lady's wedding-day
Would strew her path with flowers, and o'er the lawn
Join in the dance, to eve from early dawn;
While, with a smile and half deriding glance,
Some sought him as their partner in the dance:
And peasant railers, as he passed them by,
Laughed, whispered, laughed again, and mocked a sigh.
But he disdained them; and his heaving breast
Had no room left to feel their vulgar jest,
For it ran o'er with agony and scorn,
As water dropping on a rock was borne.

XIII.

Twas a fair summer night, and the broad moon
Sailed in calm glory through the skies of June,
Pouring on earth its pale and silv'ry light,
Till roughest forms were softened to the sight;
And on the western hills its faintest ray
Kissed the yet ruddy streaks of parted day.
The stars were few, and, twinkling, dimly shone,
For the bright moon in beauty reigned alone.
One cloud lay sleeping 'neath the breathless sky,
Bathed in the limpid light; while, as the sigh
Of secret love, silent as shadows glide,
The soft wind played among the leafy pride
Of the green trees, and scarce the aspen shook;
A babbling voice was heard from every brook,
And down the vale, in murmurs low and long,
Tweed poured its ancient and unwearied song.
Before, behind, around, afar, and near,
The wakeful landrail's watchword met the ear.
Then Edmund leaned against the hallowed tree,
Whose shade had been their temple, and where he
Had carved their names in childhood, and they yet
Upon the rind were visible. They met
Beneath its branches, spreading as a bower,
For months—for years; and the impassioned hour
Of silent, deep deliciousness and bliss,
Pure as an angel's, fervid as the kiss
Of a young mother on her first-born's brow,
Fled in their depth of joy they knew not how;
Even as the Boreal meteor mocks the eye,
Living a moment on the gilded sky,
And dying in the same, ere we can trace
Its golden hues, its form, or hiding-place.
But now to him each moment dragged a chain,
And time itself seemed weary. The fair plain,
Where the broad river in its pride was seen,
With stately woods and fields of loveliest green,
To him was now a wilderness; and even
Upon the everlasting face of heaven
A change had passed—its very light was changed,
And shed forth sickness; for he stood estranged
From all that he had loved, and every scene
Spoke of despair where love and joy had been.
Thus desolate he stood, when, lo! a sound
Of voices and gay laughter echoed round.
Then straight a party issued from the wood,
And ere he marked them all before him stood.
He gazed, he startled, shook, exclaimed aloud,
"Helen!" then burst away, and as a shroud
The sombre trees concealed him; but a cry
Of sudden anguish echoed a reply
To his wild word of misery, though he
Heard not its tone of heart-pierced agony.
She, whom his fond soul worshipped as its bride,
He saw before him by her wooer's side,
'Midst other proud ones. 'Twas a sight like death—
Death on his very heart. The balmy breath
Of the calm night struck on his brow with fire;
For each fierce passion, burning in its ire,
Raged in his bosom as a with'ring flame,
And scarce he knew he madly breathed her name;
But, as a bark before the tempest tost,
Rushed from the scene, exclaiming wildly, "Lost!"

XIV.

Two days of sorrow slowly round had crept,
And Helen lonely in her chamber wept,
Shunning her father's guests, and shunning, too,
The glance of rage and scorn which now he threw
Upon the child that e'er to him had been
Dear as immortal hope, when o'er the scene
Of human life, death, slow as twilight, lowers.
She was the sunlight of his widowed hours—
The all he loved, the glory of his eye,
His hope by day, the sole remaining tie
That linked him with the world; and rudely now
That link seemed broken; and upon his brow
Wrath lay in gloom; while, from his very feet,
He spurned the being he was wont to meet
With outstretched arms of fondness and of pride,
While all the father's feelings in a tide
Of transport gushed. But now she wept alone,
Shunning and shunned; and still the bitter tone
In which she heard her Edmund breathe her name,
Rang in her heaving bosom; and the flame
That lit his eye with frenzy and despair,
Upon her naked spirit seemed to glare
With an accusing glance; yet, while her tears
Were flowing silently, as hours and years
Flow down the tide of time, one whom she loved,
And who from childhood's days had faithful proved,
Approached her weeping, and within her hand
A packet placed, as Edmund's last command!
Wild throbbed her heart, and tears a moment fled,
While, tremblingly, she broke the seal, and read;
Then wept, and sobbed aloud, and read again,
These farewell words, of passion and of pain.

XV.

EDMUND'S LETTER.

Helen!—farewell!—I write but could not speak
That parting word of bitterness; the cheek
Grows pale when the tongue utters it; the knell
Which tells "the grave is ready!" and doth swell
On the dull wind, tolling—"the dead—the dead!"
Sounds not more desolate. It is a dread
And fearful thing to be of hope bereft,
As if the soul itself had died, and left
The body living—feeling in its breast
The death of deaths, its everlasting guest!
Such is my cheerless bosom; 'tis a tomb
Where Hope lies buried in eternal gloom,
And Love mourns o'er it—yes, my Helen—Love—
Like the sad wailings of a widowed dove
Over its rifled nest. Yet blame me not,
That I, a lowly peasant's son, forgot
The gulf between our stations. Could I gaze
Upon the glorious sun, and see its rays
Fling light and beauty round me, and remain
Dead to its power, while on the lighted plain
The humblest weed looked up in love, and spread
Its leaves before it! The vast sea doth wed
The simple brook; the bold lark soars on high,
Bounds from its humble nest and woos the sky;
Yea, the frail ivy seeks and loves to cling
Round the proud branches of the forest's king:
Then blame me not;—thou wilt not, canst not blame;
Our sorrows, hopes, and joys have been the same—
Been one from childhood; but the dream is past,
And stern realities at length have cast
Our fates asunder. Yet, when thou shalt see
Proud ones before thee bend the suppliant knee,
And kiss thy garment while they woo thy hand,
Spurn not the peasant boy who dared to stand
Before thee, in the rapture of his heart,
And woo thee as thine equal. Courtly art
May find more fitting phrase to charm thine ear,
But, dearest, mayst thou find them as sincere!
And, oh! by every past and hallowed hour!
By the lone tree that formed our trysting bower!
By the fair moon, and all the stars of night,
That round us threw love's holiest, dearest light!
By infant passion's first and burning kiss!
By every witness of departed bliss!
Forget me not, loved one! forget me not!
For, oh, to know that I am not forgot—
That thou wilt still retain within thy breast
Some thought of him who loved you first and best—
To know but this, would in my bosom be
Like one faint star seen from the pathless sea
By the bewildered mariner. Once more,
Maid of my heart, farewell! A distant shore
Must be thy Edmund's home—though where the soul
Is as a wilderness; from pole to pole
The desolate in heart may ceaseless roam,
Nor find on earth that spot of heaven—a home!
But be thou happy!—be my Helen blessed!—
Thou wilt be happy! Oh! those words have pressed
Thoughts on my brain on which I may not dwell!
Again, farewell!—my Helen, fare-thee-well!

XVI.

A gallant bark was gliding o'er the seas,
And, like a living mass, before the breeze,
Swept on majestic, as a thing of mind
Whose spirit held communion with the wind,
Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide,
As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride.
Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood—
A son of sadness; and his mournful mood
Grew day by day, while wave on wave rolled by,
And he their homeward current with a sigh
Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore
The wanderer onward from his native shore,
Till in a distant land he lonely stood
'Midst city crowds in more than solitude.

XVII.

There long he wandered, without aim or plan,
Till disappointment whispered, Act as man!
But though it cool the fever of the brain,
And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign,
Bring folly to its level, and bid hope
Before the threshold of attainment stop,
Still—when its blastings thwart our every scheme,
When humblest wishes seem an idle dream,
And the bare bread of life is half denied—
Such disappointments humble not our pride;
But do they change the temper of the soul,
Change every word and action, and enrol
The nobler mind with things of basest name—
With idleness, dishonesty, and shame!
It hath its bounds, and thus far it is well
To check presumption—visions wild to quell;
Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand—
All wholesome, all expedient. But to stand
Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be
Trampled on veriest earth, while misery
Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care,
And on the tearless eyeballs writes, Despair!
Oh! this is terrible!—and it doth throw
Upon the brow such early marks of woe,
That men seem old ere they have well been young;
Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung
With such dark feelings—misanthropic gloom,
Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb.

XVIII.

Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears
One old in wretchedness, though young in years;
For he had struggled with an angry world,
Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled,
And strove against its tide—where wave meets wave
Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave
Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep,
Till, drawn within the vortex of their deep,
The man of ruin struggleth—but in vain;
Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain
Despairing, strike at random!—It would be
A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny,
To trace each simple source from whence arose
The strong and mingled stream of human woes.
But here we may not. It is ours alone
To make the lonely wanderer's fortunes known;
And now, in plain but faithful colours dressed,
To paint the feelings of his hopeless breast.

XIX.

His withered prospects blacken—wounds await—
The grave grows sunlight to his darker fate.
All now is gall and bitterness within,
And thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin.
His sickened soul, in all its native pride,
Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide
Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he
Still stands a stately though a withered tree.
But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when
Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men;
When friends glanced doubts, and proudly prudent grew,
His counsellors, and his accusers too!

XX.

Picture his pain, his misery, when first
His growing wants their proud concealment burst;
When the first tears start from his stubborn soul.
Big, burning, solitary drops, that roll
Down his pale cheek—the momentary gush
Of human weakness—till the whirlwind rush
Of pride, of shame, had dashed them from his eye,
And his swollen heart heaved mad with agony!
Then, then the pain—the infinity of feeling—
Words fail to paint its anguish. Reason, reeling,
Staggered with torture through his burning brain,
While his teeth gnashed with bitterness and pain;
Reflection grew a scorpion, speech had fled,
And all but madness and despair were dead.

XXI.

He slept to dream of death, or worse than death;
For death were bliss, and the convulsive wrath
Of living torture peace, to the dread weight
That pressed upon sensation, while the light
Of reason gleamed but horror, and strange hosts
Of hideous phantasies, like threatening ghosts.
Grotesquely mingled, preyed upon his brain:
Then would he dream of yesterdays again,
Or view to-morrow's terrors thick surround
His fancy with forebodings. While the sound
Of his own breath broke frightful on his ear,
He, bathed in icy sweat, would start in fear,
Trembling and pale; then did his glances seem
Sad as the sun's last, conscious, farewell gleam
Upon the eve of judgment. Such appear
His days and nights whom hope has ceased to cheer
But grov'llers know it not. The supple slave
Whose worthiest record is a nameless grave,
Whose truckling spirit bends and bids him kneel,
And fawn and vilely kiss a patron's heel—
Even he can cast the cursed suspicious eye,
Inquire the cause of this—the reason why?
And stab the sufferer. Then, the tenfold pain
To feel a gilded butterfly's disdain!—
A kicking ass, without an ass's sense,
Whose only virtue is, pounds, shillings, pence;
And now, while ills on ills beset him round,
The scorn of such the hopeless Edmund found.

XXII.

But hope returned, and on the wanderer's ear
Breathed its life-giving watchword, Persevere!
And torn by want, and struggling with despair,
These were his words, his fixed resolve and prayer,
"Hail perseverance, rectitude of heart,
Through life thy aid, thy conquering power impart;
Repulsed and broken, blasted, be thou ever
A portion of my spirit! Leave me never;
Firm, fixed in purpose, watchful, unsubdued,
Until my hand hath grasped the prize pursued."

CANTO SECOND.

I.

Now, list thee, love, again, and I will tell
Of other scenes, and changes which befell
The hero of our tale. A wanderer still,
Like a lost sheep upon a wintry hill—
Wild through his heart rush want and memory now,
Like whirlwinds meeting on a mountain's brow;
Slow in his veins the thin blood coldly creeps;
He starts, he dreams, and as he walks, he sleeps!
He is a stranger—houseless, fainting, poor,
Without the shelter of one friendly door;
The cold wind whistles through his garments bare,
And shakes the night dew from his freezing hair.
You weep to hear his woes, and ask me why,
When sorrows gathered and no aid was nigh,
He sought not then the cottage of his birth,
The peace and comforts of his father's hearth?
That also thou shalt hear. Scarce had he left
His parents' home, ere ruthless fortune reft
His friend and father of his little all.
Crops failed, and friends proved false; but, worse than all,
The wife of his young love, bowed down with grief
For her sole child, like an autumnal leaf
Nipped by the frosts of night, drooped day by day,
As a fair morning cloud dissolves away.
Her eyes were dimmed with tears, and o'er her cheek,
Like a faint rainbow, broke a fitful streak,
Coming and vanishing. She weaker grew,
And scarce the half of their misfortunes knew,
Until the law's stern minions, as their prey,
Relentless seized the bed on which she lay.
"My husband! Oh my son!" she faintly cried;
Sank on her pillow, and before them died.
Even they shed tears. The widowed husband, there,
Stood like the stricken ghost of dumb despair;
Then sobbed aloud, and, sinking on the bed,
Kissed the cold forehead of his sainted dead.
Then went he forth a lone and ruined man;
But, ere three moons their circling journeys ran,
Pride, like a burning poison in his breast,
Scorched up his life, and gave the ruined rest;
Yet not till he, with tottering steps and slow,
Regained the vale where Tweed's fair waters flow,
And there, where pines around the churchyard wave,
He breathed his last upon his partner's grave!

II.

I may not tell what ills o'er Edmund passed;
Enough to say that fortune smiled at last.
In the far land where the broad Ganges rolls;
Where nature's bathed in glory, and the souls
Of me alone dwell in a starless night,
While all around them glows and lives in light:
There now we find him, honoured, trusted, loved,
For from the humblest stations he had proved
Faithful in all, and trust on trust obtained,
Till, if not wealth, he independence gained—
Earth's noblest blessing, and the dearest given
To man beneath the sacred hope of heaven.
And still, as time on silent pinions flew,
His fortunes flourished and his honours grew;
But as they grew, an anxious hope, that long
Had in his bosom been but as the song
Of viewless echo, indistinct, and still
Receding from us, grew as doth a rill
Embraced by others and increasing ever,
Till distant plains confess the sweeping river.
And, need I say, that hope referred alone
To her who in his heart had fixed her throne,
And reigned within it still, the sovereign queen.
Yet darkest visions oft would flit between
His fondest fancies, as the thought returned
That she for whom his soul still restless burned,
Would be another's now, while haply he,
Lost to her heart, would to her memory be
As the remembrance of a pleasing dream,
Vague and forgotten half, but which we deem
Worthy no waking thought. Thus years rolled by;
Hope wilder glowed and brightened in his eye.
Nor knew he why he hoped; but though despair
The Enthusiast's heart may madly grasp, and glare
Even on his soul, it may not long remain
A dweller on his breast, for hope doth reign
There as o'er its inheritance; and he
Lives in fond visions of futurity.

III.

Twelve slow and chequered years had passed.—Again
A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main,
And waves and days together glided by,
Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast's eye,
His island home rose from the ocean's breast—
A thing of strength, of glory, and of rest—
The giant of the deep!—while on his sight
Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white—
Stronger than death! and beautiful as strong!
Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song!
"Home of my fathers!" the Enthusiast cried;
"Their home—ay, and their grave!" he said and sighed.
But gazing still upon its glorious strand,
Again he cried, "My own, my honoured land!
Fair freedom's home and mine! Britannia! hail!
Queen of the mighty seas; to whom each gale
From every point of heaven a tribute brings,
And on thy shores earth's farthest treasure flings!
Land of my heart and birth! at sight of thee
My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free
From long captivity! Thy very air
Is fragrant with remembrance! Thou dost bear,
On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal
Of godlike Liberty! The slave might kneel
Upon thy shore, bending the willing knee,
To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free!
Even I feel freer as I reach thy shore,
And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar
That hymns around thee! Birthplace of the brave!
My own—my glorious home!—the very wave,
Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high,
As if rejoicing on thy beach to die!
My loved—my father-land! thy faults to me
Are as the specks which men at noontide see
Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale
Beneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil.
Land of my birth! where'er thy sons may roam,
Their pride—their boast—their passport is their home!"

IV.

'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still
On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill;
The day was closing, and slow darkness stole
Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul,
Sealing the eyelids up—unconscious, slow,
Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know,
On waking, that we slept—but may not tell;
Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell.
A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er
A rustic gate before the cottage door—
The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew,
And o'er its roof their arching branches threw.
It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears,
On the now cheerless home of early years—
While as the grave of buried joys it stood,
Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood;
The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare;
The parterre, erst the object of his care,
With early weeds o'ergrown; and slow decay
Had changed or swept all else he loved away.
Upon the sacred threshold, once his own,
He silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown;
Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed
To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid
His parents, side by side. A change had come
O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb,
And through the vale no accent met his ear
That he was wont in early days to hear;
While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view,
As a dull picture of a spot we knew,
Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace.
But no bold truth, nor one familiar face.

V.

Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom,
As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb,
Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace,
Amidst the graves, his father's resting-place.
And well the spot he knew; yea, it alone
Was all now left that he might call his own
Of all that was his kindred's; and although
He looked for no proud monument to show
The tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot
Where slept his ancestors; and had it not,
He deemed—he felt—that if his feet but trode
Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God,
As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast,
Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!"
'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;—but, oh! to tread,
With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead,
With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face—
At such a moment, and in such a place,
Seeking the dead we love—who would not feel.
Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel
On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod
As in the presence of our father's God!

VI.

He reached the spot; he startled—trembled—wept;
And through his bosom wildest feelings swept.
He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place
Where slept the generations of his race,
A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried,
"Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied
The parents of my heart a grave with those
Of their own kindred?—have their ruthless foes
Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own?
If but a weed upon that grave had grown,
I would have honoured it!—have called it brother!
Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother!
But that cold marble freezes up my heart,
And seems to tell me that I have no part
With its proud dead; while through the veil of night
The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight."
Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed
His finger on the marble, while he traced
Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;—
Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more,
As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came—
The unseen letters formed his father's name!

VII.

While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still
His anxious task, slow o'er a neighbouring hill
The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed,
Lit up the valley, and the tomb revealed!—
His parents' tomb!—and now, with wild surprise,
He saw the column burst upon his eyes—
Fair, chaste, and beautiful; and on it read
These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead:
"Beneath repose the virtuous and the just,
Mingled in death, affection's hallowed dust.
In token of their worth, this simple stone
Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one
Who loved them as such, and their name would save
As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave."
"Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!"
And the cold grave received his burning tear;
Then knelt he o'er it—clasped his hands in prayer;
But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there,
Before his eyes, upon the grave appear
Primroses twain—the firstlings of the year,—
And bursting forth between the blossomed two,
Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew.
He gazed—he loved them as a living thing;
And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining
Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul
In superstition's whispers; whose control
The wisest in their secret moments feel,
And blush at weakness they may not reveal.

VIII.

He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought,
The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought;
And, as its branches opened on his sight,
Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight,
A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low,
As if an angel mourned for mortal woe,
Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear:
He knew the voice—his heart stood still to hear!
And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye
Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh;
And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair
As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer.
He clasped his hands—his brow, his bosom burned;
He felt the past—the buried past returned!
Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame,
Through her low prayer he heard his whispered name!
"Helen!" he wildly cried—"my own—my blest!"
Then bounded forth.—I cannot tell the rest.
There was a shriek of joy: heart throbbed on heart,
And hands were locked as though they ne'er might part;
Wild words were spoken—bliss tumultuous rolled,
And all the anguish of the past was told.

IX.

Upon her love long had her father frowned,
Till tales of Edmund's rising fortunes found
Their way across the wilderness of sea,
And reached the valley of his birth. But she,
With truth unaltered, and with heart sincere,
Through the long midnight of each hopeless year
That marked his absence, shunned the proffered hand
Of wealth and rank; and met her sire's command
With tears and bended knees, until his breast
Again a father's tenderness confessed.

X.

'Twas May—bright May: bird, flower, and shrub, and tree,
Rejoiced in light; while, as a waveless sea
Of living music, glowed the clear blue sky,
And every fleecy cloud that floated by
Appeared an isle of song!—as all around
And all above them echoed with the sound
Of joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet,
Chanting their summer hymns. Beneath their feet
The daisy put its crimson liv'ry on;
While from beneath each crag and mossy stone
Some gentle flower looked forth; and love and life
Through the Creator's glorious works were rife,
As though his Spirit in the sunbeams said,
"Let there be life and love!" and was obeyed.
Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng,
And happy voices sang a bridal song;
Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green,
The old and young in one glad dance were seen;
Loud o'er the plain their merry music rang,
While cripple granddames, smiling, sat and sang
The ballads of their youth; and need I say
'Twas Edmund's and fair Helen's wedding-day?
Then, as he led her forth in joy and pride,
A hundred voices blessed him and his bride.
Yet scarce he heard them; for his every sense,
Lost in delight and ecstasy intense,
Dwelt upon her; and made their blessings seem
As words breathed o'er us in a wand'ring dream.

XI.

Now months and years in quick succession flew,
And joys increased, and still affection grew.
For what is youth's first love to wedded joy?
Or what the transports of the ardent boy
To the fond husband's bliss, which, day by day,
Lights up his spirit with affection's ray?
Man knows not what love is, till all his cares
The partner of his bosom soothes and shares—
Until he find her studious to please—
Watching his wishes!—Oh, 'tis acts like these
That lock her love within his heart, and bind
Their souls in one, and form them of one mind.
Love flowed within their bosoms as a tide,
While the calm rapture of their own fireside
Each day grew holier, dearer; and esteem
Blended its radiance with the glowing beam
Of young affection, till it seemed a sun
Melting their wishes and their thoughts as one.

XII.

Eight years passed o'er them in unclouded joy,
And now by Helen's side a lovely boy,
Looked up and called her, Mother; and upon
The knee of Edmund climbed a little one—
A blue-eyed prattler—as her mother fair.
They were their parents' joy, their hope, their care;
But, while their cup with happiness ran o'er,
And the long future promised joys in store,
Death dropped its bitterness within the cup,
And its late pleasant waters mingled up
With wailing and with woe. Like early flowers,
Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours,
The roses left their two fair children's cheeks,
Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks,
As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes
Grew lustreless and sad; and yearning cries—
Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart—
Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart
Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk
Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk;
Yet the affection of the children grew,
As its dull, wasting poison wandered through
Their tender breasts; and still they ever lay
With their arms round each other. On the day
That ushered in the night on which they died,
The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried,
"Weep not, dear mother!—mother, do not weep!
You told me and my sister, death was sleep—
That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down,
And who for our sake wore a thorny crown—
You often told us how He came to save
Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave;
And I have read in his blessed book,
How in his hand a little child He took,
And said that such in heaven should greatest be:
Then, weep not, mother—do not weep for me;
For if I be angel when I die,
I'll watch you, mother—I'll be ever nigh;
Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head;
Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead!
But let my sister's grave and mine be one,
And lay us by the pretty marble stone,
To which our father dear was wont to go,
And where, in spring, the sweet primroses blow;
Then, weep not, mother!" But she wept the more;
While the sad father his affliction bore
Like one in whom all consciousness was dead,
Save that he wrung his hands and rocked his head,
And murmured oft this short and troubled prayer—
"O God! look on me, and my children spare!"

XIII.

Their little arms still round each other clung,
When their last sleep death's shadow o'er them flung!
And still they slept, and fainter grew their breath—
Faint and more faint, until their sleep was death.
Deep, but unmurmured was the mother's grief,
For in her FAITH she sought and found relief;
Yea, while she mourned a daughter and a son,
She looked to heaven, and cried, "Thy will be done!"
But, oh! the father no such solace found—
Dark, cheerless anguish wrapt his spirit round;
He was a stranger to the Christian's hope,
And in bereavement's hour he sought a prop
On which his pierced and stricken soul might lean;
Yet, as he sought it, doubts would intervene—
Doubts which for years had clouded o'er his soul—
Doubts that, with prayers he struggled to control;
For though a grounded faith he ne'er had known,
He was no prayerless man; but he had grown
To thinking manhood from his dreaming youth,
A seeker still—a seeker after truth!—
An earnest seeker, but his searching care
Sought more in books and nature than by prayer;
And vain he sought, nor books nor nature gave
The hope of hopes that animates the grave!
Though, to have felt that hope, he would have changed
His station with the mendicant who ranged
Homeless from door to door and begged his bread,
While heaven hurled its tempest round his head.
For what is hunger, pain, or piercing wind,
To the eternal midnight of the mind?
Or what on earth a horror can impart,
Like his who feels engraven on his heart
The word, Annihilation! Often now
The sad Enthusiast would strike his brow,
And cry aloud, with deep and bitter groans,
"How have I sinned, that both my little ones—
The children of my heart—should be struck down!
O Thou Almighty Spirit! if thy frown
Is now upon me, turn aside thy wrath,
And guide me—lead, oh lead me in the path
Of heaven's own truth; direct my faith aright,
Teach me to hope, and lend thy Spirit's light."

XIV.

Thus, long his soul as a frail bark was tossed
On a dark sea, with helm and compass lost,
Till she who ever to his breast had been
The star of hope and love, with brow serene,
As if no sorrow e'er her heart had riven,
But her eye calmly looked through time to heaven—
Soothed his sad spirit, and with anxious care
Used much of reason, and yet more of prayer;
Till bright'ning hope dawned gently o'er his soul,
Like the sun's shadow at the freezing pole,
Seen by the shiv'ring Greenlander, or e'er
Its front of fire does his horizon cheer;
While brighter still that ardent hope became,
Till in his bosom glowed the living flame
Of Christian faith—faith in the Saviour sent,
By the eternal God, to preach, "Repent
And be ye saved."—-Then peace, as sunshine, fell
On the Enthusiast's bosom, and the swell
Of anguish died away, as o'er the deep
The waves lie down when winds and tempests sleep.

XV.

Time glided on, and wedded joys still grew
As beauty deepens on an autumn view
With tinges rich as heaven! and, though less green,
More holy far than summer's fairest scene.
Now o'er the happy pair, at life's calm eve
Age like a shadow fell, and seemed to weave
So fair a twilight round each silvered brow,
That they ne'er felt so young, so blest as now;
Though threescore winters o'er their path had fled,
And left the snow of years on either head.
For age drew round them, but they knew it not—
The once bright face of youth was half forgot;
But still the young, the unchanged heart was there,
And still his aged Helen seemed as fair
As when, with throbbing heart and giddy bliss,
He from her lips first snatched the virgin kiss!

XVI.

Last scene of all: An old and widowed man,
Whose years had reached life's farthest, frailest span,
And o'er whose head, as every moment flew,
Eternity its dark'ning twilight threw,
Lay in his silent chamber, dull and lone,
Watching the midnight stars, as one by one
They as slow, voiceless spirits glided past
The window of his solitude, and cast
Their pale light on his brow; and thus he lay
Till the bright star that ushers in the day
Rose on his sight, and, with its cheering beams,
Lit in his bosom youth's delicious dreams;
Yea, while he gazed upon that golden star,
Rolling in light, like love's celestial car,
He deemed he in its radiance read the while
His children's voices and his Helen's smile;
And as it passed, and from his sight withdrew,
His longing spirit followed it! and flew
To heaven and deathless bliss—from earth and care—
To meet his Helen and his children there!

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE.

I.

Of a maiden's beauty the world-wide praise
Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days,
When her envied name was a nation's fame,
And raised in knights' breasts an emulous flame,
Which lighted to honour and grand emprise—
Things always so lovely in ladies' eyes;
For a true woman's favour will ever be won
By that which is noble and nobly done.

Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn
With a note of love and a blast of scorn;
Of love to the Ladye Etheline
Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein,
Whose beauty had passed o'er Christian land
As a philter to nerve the resolute hand
Of many a knight in the goodly throng
Who gathered round Godfrey of Buglion,
With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold,
And thousands of others as brave and bold;
And a blast of scorn to every knight
Who would dare to challenge his envied right.
The porte yields quick to the warder's hand
By the Yerl's consent, by the Yerl's command;
And the ladye, who knew the winding sound,
As the tra-la-la rang all around,
Has opened her casement up on high,
And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy.

II.

"I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee,
As here I crave upon bended knee,
That thou wilt grant unto my prayer
A single lock of thy golden hair,
To wear in a lockheart over my breast,
And carry with me to the balmy East—
The land where the Saviour met his death,
The sacred Salem of saving faith,
Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord,
Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde.
Grant me the meed for which I burn,
And, by our Ladye, on my return,
We will wedded be in the sacred bands
Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands."

The ladye has, with a gesture bland,
Taken her scissors into her hand,
And clipt a lock of her auburn hair,
And yielded it to his ardent prayer;
But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes
Hath fallen upon the golden prize.
"Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled—
"This tear was from thine heart beguiled,
And I take it to be an omen of good,
For tears, my love, are purified blood,
That impart a beauty to female eyes,
And vouch for her kindly sympathies."
"Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied—
"An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed;
Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek,
Nor further word could the damoiselle speak.
Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still,
"If tears, my love, are an omen of ill,
The way to deprive them of evil spell
Is to kiss them away, and—all is well!"
And he took in his arms the yielding maid,
And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again,
To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train.
Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell,
"Fare thee—fare thee—fare thee well;"
But Etheline, as she waved her hand,
Could not those flowing tears command,
And thought the bugle in sounds did say,
"Fare thee—fare thee well for aye."

III.

A year has passed: at Eaglestein
There sat the Ladye Etheline;
Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale,
Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail;
For though through the world's busy crowd
The deeds of the war were sung aloud,
And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled
With Godfrey's among the brave and bold,
No letter had come from her knight so dear,
To belie the spell of the lock and tear.
The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say,
"Alas! for the hour when he went away."
But the womb of old Time is everly full,
And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull.
Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear,
And echoed around both far and near;
It is Sir Ronald from Palestine—
Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline.
"I have come," said he, "through pain and peril,
To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl:
Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan,
Who slew our most gallant capitan!
Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour,
Fell wounded before High Salem's tower,
And ere he died he commissioned me
To bear to Scotland, and give to thee,
This bit of the genuine haly rood
Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood,
That thou mightst give it to Etheline,
As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere,
The ancient elms seem withered and bare,
The river asleep in its rushy bed,
The waters are green, and the grass is red,
The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers,
Where oft in the dewy evening hours,
Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell,
And the merle was singing her day-farewell,
The Lady Etheline would recline
And think of her dear Sir Peregrine:
All was cheerless now, forlorn,
As if they missed her at early morn;
At noontide and at evening fall
They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing,
The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing
For one so young, so gentle, and fair,
Their only child, lying ailing there,
Waning and waning slowly away,
Yet waxing more beautiful every day,
As if she were drawing from spheres above,
Before she got there, the spirit of love,
Which shone as a light through the silken lire,
Pure as was that of the vestal fire;
And ever she kissed in hysterical mood
The bit of the cross all red with blood.
"Oh mother dear! I wish—I fear
The time of my going is drawing near:
Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour,
A voice seemed to come through my chamber door—
For the ear of the dying is tender and fine—
And three times it sounded Etheline;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
Such voices are calls to come away—
The voices of angels hovering near,
Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere."
"Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child,
Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled:
It was the Yerl, when in a dream,
Who three times called thy dear-loved name;
I heard the call as awake I lay,
And thou mayst believe what now I say."

"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear?
It is the nightingale singing clear;
I have heard the notes in Italian clime,
And remember them since that early time;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
That when the nightingale sings by day,
The dying who hears it will pass away."
"No, no, my child, the song you hear
Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear:
I see him upon the linden tree,
And you, if you like, may also see.
I know its speckled breast too well;
It is not, dear child, the nightingale."

When this she heard, the maiden sighed,
As if she were vexed she was denied
The hope of passing quickly away
To yon regions bright of eternal day.

"Oh mother! list, what do I hear?
Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear;
Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say
In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;'
And it is true, as I've heard tell,
When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill,
It is a true sign to his earthly bride,
He will wait for her spirit at evening tide."

The Countess turned her face to the Yerl;
It was true what was said by the dying girl;
It was Sir Peregrine's horn they heard,
And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word,
For they wondered much, and were sore afraid
Of mysteries working about the maid,
Who, as she lay in her ecstasie,
Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie:
"Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come,
Happy the maid whom her knight calls home;
It is the nightingale that I hear,
The golden sun is shining clear;
And I've heard tell in time past gone,
Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on."

And, as they listened, there came to their ear
The grating of the portcullis gear,
And a cry of fear from the ballion green,
As if the retainers a ghost had seen:
Tramp and tramp on the scalière,
And along the corridor leading there;
The door is opened, and lo! comes in
The leal and the living Sir Peregrine.
"Holy Maria!" the Countess cried,
"Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied;
The maid looked up, then sank her head,
As an Ave Marie again she said:
"Ave Marie! my sweet ladye,
Ave Marie! I come to thee.
Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine,
That look so kindly into mine;
Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand
To welcome me to yon happy land;
Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair,
That thy poor child may nestle there;"
Then she laid her arms across her breast,
And gently, softly, sank to rest.
The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear
On the linden tree there growing near,
And the sun burst forth with brighter ray
On the couch where her spirit had passed away.

V.

Over hollow, and over height,
Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight
Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein—
To him and the Lady Etheline.
The time has come and the wish made good,
The villain he met in the Calder Wood.
"Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou,
For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below;
Ten lives like thine would not suffice
To be to my soul a sacrifice;
There is the glaive, it is thine to try.
Or with it or without it thou must die."
But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn:
"Come on, thou bastard of bastards born."
Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day:
They rushed like tigers upon their prey;
Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire,
The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire;
But victory goes not aye with right,
Nor the race to those the quickest in flight.
Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim:
His sword breaks through—his arm is maim!
With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward.
No word of mercy or quarter heard;
With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies,
A look of scorn—Sir Peregrine dies.

Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein,
The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen,
And there long mouldering lay close side by side,
Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride;
Their ashes scattered now and blown away,
As thine and mine will be some coming day.
This world is surely an enchanted theme,
A thing of seims and shows—a wild fantastic dream.

III.

THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL.

The tower-bell has sounded the midnight hour,
Old Night has unfolded her sable pall,
Darkness o'er hamlet, darkness o'er hall,
Loud screams the raven on Allerley Tower;[A]
A glimmering gleam from yon casement high
Is all that is seen by the passer-by.

[Footnote A: In Ayrshire, as I have heard, but I know of no trace of the family. The old distich may be traced to some other county:

"The Allerley oak stands high, abune trees;
When the raven croaks there, an Allerley dees."

Such rhymes have generally something to rest upon, but I cannot associate this with any county, far less a family.]

All things are neglected, time-smitten there,
Crazy and cobwebbed, mildewed and worn,
Moth-eaten, weeviled, dusty, forlorn,
Everything owning to waning and wear;
From the baron's hall to the lady's bower
NEGLECT is the watchword in Allerley Tower.

There is silence within old Allerley Hall,
Save the raven without with her "croak, croak,"
And the cricket's "click, click," in the panels of oak,
Behind the dim arras that hangs on the wall;
So silent and sad in the midnight hour,
Yet life may still linger in Allerley Tower.

An old woman sits by a carved old bed—
The drape of green silk, all yellow and sere,
The gold-coloured fringes dingy and drear;
And she nods and nods her silvery head,
And sometimes she looks with a half-drowsy air.
To notice how Death may be working there.

Lord William lies there, care-worn and pale,
All his sunlight of spirit has passed away,
And left to him only that twilight of grey
Which ushers men into the long dark vale;
Fast ebbing his life, yet feeling no pain,
Save a memory working within his brain.

He had sought the world's crowd for forty years,
But only a little relief to borrow
From the heartfelt pangs of that early sorrow
Which had drawn him away from his gay compeers,
And made him oft sigh, with a pain-begot scorn,
That into this world he ever was born.

But being brought in, as a victim, to tarry,
With him, as with all, it is how to get out
With no more of pain than you can't go without,
Where all have original sin to carry;
But his memory brightened, as strength waxed low,
Of the grief he had borne forty years ago.

There is silence and sadness in Allerley Tower;
The taper is glimmering with murky snot,
The raven croak-croaking with rusty throat,
And the cricket click-clicking at midnight hour;
And the woman mope-moping by the bed,
Still nodding and nodding her drowsy head.

"Now bring me, old nurse, from that escritoire,
A packet tied up with a ribbon of blue;"
Ah! well, though now faded, that ribbon he knew,
Which his fingers had bound forty years before.
He shuddered to look, yet afraid to wait,
Lest Death might render his vision too late.

That ribbon he drew in a calm despair:
Behold now revealed to his wondering eyes
A face of all beautiful harmonies,
Set fair among ringlets of golden hair;
With eyes so blue and a smile of heaven,
Which haply some angel to her had given.

Beside that miniature lay a scroll,
As written by him forty years before:
He read every word of it o'er and o'er,
And every word of it flashed through his soul,
In a flood of that bright and awakened light
Which slumbers and sleeps through a long, long night.

THE SCROLL.

"I loved my love early, the young Lady May;
I saw her bloom rarely in youth's rosy day;
But her eye looked afar to some orb that was shining,
As if for that sphere her spirit was pining.

"Faint in the light of day seemed what was near her;
Visions far, far away, clearer and clearer;
Still, as flesh wears away spirits that bear it,
Eyeing yon milky way, sigh to be near it.

"Lady May, she is dying—she hears some one whisper,
Near where she's lying, 'Come away, sister'—
Draw down each silky lid—draw them down over
Eyes whose last light on earth shone on her lover.

"My lost Lady May in yon vault now is sleeping;
Her sisters who go to pray come away weeping;
And while I yet linger here, some one elates me,
Whispering into my ear, 'Yonder she waits thee.'"

And thus they had waited until this last day,
But the hour of their meeting was coming apace;
And as he still gazed on that beautiful face,
His spirit so weary passed gently away;
And the nurse would unfold those fingers so cold,
Which still of that picture retained the hold.

There's the silence of death in Allerley Tower,
The taper gone out with its murky smoke,
The raven has finished her croak-croak,
The cricket is silent at midnight hour;
The last of the Allerley lords lies there,
And Allerley goes to a distant heir.

In yon tomb where was laid his young Lady May,
Lord William sleeps now by the side of her bier;
And the Allerley lords and ladies lie near.
But nearest of neighbours they nothing can say:
No "Good morrow, my lord," when the day is begun,
No "My lady, good night," when the day it is done.

IV.

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE.

I.

'Twas at a time now long past gone,
And well gone if 'twill stay,
When our good land seemed made alone
For lords and ladies gay;
When brown bread was the poor man's fare,
For which he toiled and swet,
When men were used as nowt or deer.
And heads were only worth the wear
When crowned with coronet.

There was a right good noble knight,
Sir Bullstrode was his name[A]—
A name which he acquired by fight,
And with it meikle fame.
Upon his burnished shield he bore
A head of bull caboshed
(For so they speak in herald lore),
And for his crest he aptly wore
Two bones of marrow crossed.

[Footnote A: A knight called Bullstrode, as having got his name in the way set forth, is mentioned by Guillim; but whether he is the same as he who figures in the Scotch legend I do not know.]

For he had slain in tournay set
Full many a blazoned fool;
Nor would he deem his praise complete
Till he had slain a bull.
He threw the gauntlet at the brute,
Which was received with scorn,
For Taurus straight the gauntlet took,
Then in the air the bauble shook,
And tossed it on his horn.

To fight they went with might and main,
And fought a good long hour;
The knight's long lance was broke in twain—
Sir Bull had now the power;
The ladies laughed, the barons too,
As they Sir Bull admired!
But where fair ladies are to view,
Who may declare what knight may do,
By noble emprise fired?

The knight he paused amid the claque,
And threw a look of scorn:
Sir Bull has Bullstrode on his back,
Who held by either horn;
And round the ring, and round the ring,
Rushed bull in wild affray,
Stamping, roaring, bellowing,—
And, stumbling, gave his neck a wring,
And Bullstrode won the day.

This valiant knight, by love inspired,
Next sued fair Katharine,
The daughter of Sir Ravensbeard,
A man of ancient line;
And he had known the reason good
Sir Bullstrode got his name,
And wished—if Kate could be subdued—
To mix his blue and blazoned blood
With one of such a fame.

II.

But when the knights are thus employeed,
The lady is in yon glen,
There seated by the river side
With one, the flower of men—
George Allan—a rich yeoman's heir,
Who leased her father's land.
Yet, though beloved by all the fair,
Young Allan might not surely dare
To claim this envied hand.

Yet hearts will work, and hearts will steal
What high commands deny;
And beauty is a thing to feel,
Self-chosen by the eye:
Nor would fair Katharine had gi'en
A touch of Allan's hand
For all the honours she could gain
From duke or earl, lord or thane,
Or knight in all the land.

She knew the price she had to pay
For this her secret love;
But where's a will there is a way,
And Kate she would it prove.
The will we know, the way's obscure,
Deep in her soul confined;
What quick invention might secure,
With love for the inspiring power,
Was in that maiden's mind.

"Now, Allan," she said, with a silent laugh,
In eyes both quaint and keen,
"Thou must not fear, for here I swear
By Coz. Saint Catharine,
'Twas easier for this doughty knight
To hold these horns he dared,
Than take for wife by a father's right,
Against the spurn of a maiden's spite,
The daughter of Ravensbeard."

"No, no, fair lady," George Allan said—
With tears his eyes were full—
"'Tis easier to force the will of a maid,
Than hold by the horns a bull."
"Yes! yes! of the maids who say a prayer,
Like sisters of orders grey;
But Kate admits no craven fear,
And she can do what they cannot dare,
For she's quicker of parts than they."

III.

It's up in yon chamber well bedight
Of the castle of Invercloyd,
A maiden sits with a grim sir knight
Seated on either side.
"I come to thee by a father's right,
To issue my last command,
That thou concede to this gallant knight,
What his noble nature will requite,
The guerdon of thy hand."

"And here, upon my bended knee,"
Sir Bullstrode blandly said,
"I pray thee, in knightly courtesie,
The grace thy sire hath pled."
"Oh yes! a guerdon let it remain,
I give thee free consent;
But I have a mind, and will maintain,
This knight shall only my favour gain
In knightly tournament."

"What meaneth the wench?" the father cried,
With a fire-flaught in his eye,
"What other knight would'st thou invite
Sir Bullstrode to defy?
Is he a lover? I grant no parle,
For I am resolved to know,
And wish, by my sword, no better a quarrel;
And be he a ceorl, or be he an earl,
He goes to shades below."

"No lover is he, my father dear,
My champion who shall be;
A stranger knight shall for me fight,
And shall my fate decree."
"Well done! well done!" cried Sir Bullstrode,
"That goeth with my gree;
May the carrion crow be then abroad,
All hungry to feed upon carrion food,
That day he fights with me."

"But let this contract," said the maid,
"Be written on parchment skin,
And signed, and sealed, and witnessèd,
That surety I may find."
Again the father knit his brow,
Yet could not he complain,
Because Sir Bullstrode wished it so,
That all the world might come to know
His honour he could maintain.

IV.

It's up in yon chamber tapestried,
Sits the Lady Katharine;
She smiled at a woman's art applied
Her own true love to win.
And lo! who comes in a tearful way,
But her pretty tire-woman,
"Hey! hey! what now? good lack-a-day!
Such cheeks so pale, and lips like clay;
What ails maid Lilian?"

"Oh it is, it is, young mistress mine,
All about this valiant knight,
Who came to me all drunk with wine,
At the dead hour of the night.
He seized me struggling to get free,
And swore by the goat of Jove,
He would me fee, if I would be,
La! my lady! I fear to tell it to thee,
His left-hand lady-love."

"Ho! ho! my maid, a pretty scene!
A brute of noble parts!
But 'tis easier to turn a bull by each horn,
Than rule two women's hearts.
No harems have we in western land,
Where a woman's soul is free,
To rule weak man by her high command,
And rouse by a wave of her wizard wand
The fire of his chivalrie."

V.

Lo! round the lists, and round the lists,
Bedecked with pennons gay,
Environed there with ladies fair,
Sir Bullstrode held his way.
High mounted on a gallant steed,
And armed a-cap-a-pie,
His lance well graced by a pennon red,
A white plume nodded o'er his head,
With ribbons at his knee.

"Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?"
The father loudly cried.
"She hath not finished her robing yet,"
A lady quick replied.
And now a shout rang all about,
Ho! ho! there comes apace,
A Cataphract[A] of noble mien,
With armour bright as silver sheen,
And eke of gentle grace.

[Footnote A: A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in the times of chivalry.]

He bore for his escochion
Dan Cupid with his dart,
And for his crest there was impressed
A well-skewered bleeding heart;
His yellow streamer on his spear,
Flew fluttering in the wind,
And thrice he waved it in the air,
As if to fan the ladies there,
And thrice his head inclined.

"Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard;
But no one there could say.
"Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard;
But each one answered Nay.
"I am Sir Peveril," said the knight,
"If you my name would learn,
And I will for fair Katharine fight,
A lady's love, and a lady's right,
And a lady's choice to earn."

The gauntlet thrown upon the ground,
Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy:
"Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee—
Methinks a beardless boy."
Nor sooner said than in he sprang
And aimed a mortal blow,
The crenel upon the buckler rang,
And having achieved an echoing clang,
It made no more ado.

The stranger knight wheeled quick as light,
And charging with gratitude,
Gave him good thank on his left flank,
And lo! a stream of blood!
Shall he this knight, so dread in fight,
Cede to this beardless foe,
And feel in his pain, returned again,
That vaunt of his so empty and vain,
That vaunt of the carrion crow?

Stung by the wound, not less by shame,
He gathered all his force,
And sprang again, with desperate aim,
His enemy to unhorse;
But he who watched the pointed lance
A dexterous movement made,
And saw his foe, as he missed the blow,
Rock in his selle both to and fro,
And vault o'er his horse's head.

Sore fainting from the loss of blood,
He lay upon the ground,
Nor e'er a leech within his reach
Can stop that fatal wound.
And there with many an honour full,
That brave and doughty knight,
Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull,
And killed (himself one) many a fool,
Has closed his eyes in night.

VI.

And now within the ballion court
There sits Sir Ravensbeard:
"Who shall me say what popinjay
Hath earned this proud reward?"
And there stands Katharine all confessed
In maiden dignity;
"'Twas I, in 'fence of life sore pressed,
'Twas I, at honour's high behest,
This bad man made to die.

"For hear me, sire, restrain your ire,
This knight you so admired,
A plan had laid to ruin my maid,
While he for my love aspired.
I claim the contract by his hand,
Whereto thou'rt guarantee,
And this young Allan is the man,
And he alone of all Scotland,
Thy Katharine's lord shall be."

V.

THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA.

I.

Sir Robert has left his castle ha',
The castle of fair Holmylee,
And gone to meet his Ailie Faa,
Where no one might be there to see.
He has sounded shrill his bugle horn,
But not for either horse or hound;
And when the echoes away were borne,
He listened for a well-known sound.

He hears a rustling among the leaves,
Some pattering feet are drawing near;
Like autumn's breathings among the sheaves,
So sweet at eventide to hear:
His Ailie Faa, who is sweeter far
Than the white rose hanging upon the tree,
Who is fairer than the fairies are
That dance in moonlight on the lea.

Oh! there are some flowers, as if in love,
Unto the oak their arms incline;
And tho' the tree may rotten prove,
They still the closer around it twine:
So has it been until this hour,
And so in coming time 'twill be,
Wherever young love may hang a flower,
'Twill think it aye ane trusty tree.

He has led her into a summer bower,
For he was fond and she was fain,
And there with all of a lover's power
He whispered that old and fatal strain,
Which those who sing it and those who hear
Have never sung and never heard,
But they have shed the bitter tear
For every soft delusive word.

He pointed to yon castle ha',
And all its holts so green and fair;
And would not she, poor Ailie Faa,
Move some day as a mistress there?
As the parchèd lea receives the rains,
Her ears drank up the sweet melodie;
A gipsy's blood flowed in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.

Oh! it's time will come and time will go,
That which has been will be again;
This strange world's ways go to and fro,
This moment joy, the next is pain.
A sough has thro' the hamlet spread,
To Ailie's ear the tidings came,
That Holmylee will shortly wed
A lady fair of noble name.

II.

In yon lone cot adown the Lynne
A widowed mother may think it long
Since there were lightsome words within,
Since she has heard blithe Ailie's song.
A gloomy shade sits on Ailie's brow,
At times her eyes flash sudden fires,
The same she had noticed long ago,
Deep flashing in her gipsy sire's.

When the wind at even was low and loun,
And the moon paced on in her majesty
Thro' lazy clouds, and threw adown
Her silvery light o'er turret and tree,
Then Ailie sought the green alcove,
That place of fond lovers' lone retreat,
Where she for the boon of gentle love,
Had changed the meed of a deadly hate.

She sat upon "the red Lynne stone,"
Where she between the trees might see,
By yon pale moon that shone thereon,
The goodly turrets of Holmylee.
And as she felt the throbbing pains,
And as she heaved the bursting sigh,
A gipsy's blood burned in her veins,
A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye.

If small the body that thus was moved,
So like the form that fairies wear,
It was that slenderness he loved,
So tiny a thing he might not fear.
But there is an insect skims the air,
Bedecked with azure and green and gold,
Whose sting is a deadlier thing by far
Than dagger of yon baron bold.

III.

She sat upon the red Lynne stone,
The midnight sky was overcast,
The winds are out with a sullen moan,
The angry Lynne is rolling past.
What then? there was no lack of light,
Full fifteen windows blazing shone
Up on the castle on the height,
While Ailie Faa sat there alone.

For there is dancing and deray
In the ancient castle of Holmylee,
And barons bold and ladies gay
Are holding high-jinks revelry.
Sir Robert has that day been wed,
'Midst sounding trumpets of éclat,
And one that night will grace his bed
Of nobler birth than Ailie Faa.

Revenge will claim its high command,
And Ailie is on her feet erect,
She passes nervously her hand
Between her jupe and jerkinet.
There lies a charm for woman's wrong,
Concealed where beats the bursting heart,
Which, ere an hour hath come and gone,
Will play somewhere a fatal part.

IV.

Up in the hall of Holmylee
Still sound the revel, the dance, and song,
And through the open doors and free
There pours the gay and stately throng;
But of all the knights and barons there,
The bridegroom still the foremost stood,
And she the fairest of the fair,
The bride who was of noble blood.

It was when feet were tripping
The mazes of the dance,
It was when lips were sipping
The choicest wines of France,
A wild scream rose within the hall,
Which pierced the roofen tree,
And in the midst was seen to fall
The Baron of Holmylee.

"To whom belongs this small stilette.
By whom our host is slain?"
Between a jupe and jerkinet
That weapon long had lain.
Each on his sword his hand did lay,
This way and that they ran;
But she who did the deed is away,
Ho! catch her if you can.

VI.

THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE

I.

Thou little god of meikle sway,
Who rul'st from pole to pole,
And up beyond yon milky way,
Where wondrous planets roll:
Oh! tell me how a power divine,
That tames the creatures wild,
Whose touch benign makes all men kin,
Could slay sweet Emergilde?

It's up the street, and down the street,
And up the street again,
And all the day, and all the way,
She looks at noble men;
But him she seeks she cannot find
In all that moving train;
No one can please that anxious gaze,
And own to "Ballenden."

From the high castle on the knowe,
Adown the Canongate,
And from the palace in the howe,
Up to the castle yett,
A hizzy here, a cadie there,
She stops with modest mien;
All she can say four words convey:
"I seek for Ballenden."

Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew,
For she's of foreign kin,
And all her speech can only reach
"I seek for Ballenden."
No Ballenden she yet could find,
No one aught of him knew;
She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd,
Next morn to search anew.

II.

And who is she, this fair ladye,
To whom our land is strange?
Why all alone, to all unknown,
Within this city's range?
Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown
Our Scotch folk love to view,
When 'neath it shows the red, red rose,
Like sunlight shining through.

Her tunic was of the mazerine,
Of scarlet her roquelaire,
And o'er her back, in ringlets black,
Fell down her raven hair.
Her eyes, so like the falling sterns,
Seen on an August night,
Had surely won from eastern sun
Some rayons of his light.

And still she tried, and still she plied,
Her task so sad and vain,
The words still four—they were no more—
"I seek for Ballenden."
No Ballenden could she yet find,
No one aught of him knew,
And still at night down Toddrick's Wynd,
Next morn to search anew.

III.

In Euphan Barnet's lowly room,
Adown that darksome wynd,
A ladye fair is lying there,
In illness sair declined;
Her cheeks now like the lily pale,
The roses waned away,
Her eyes so bright have lost their light,
Her lips are like the clay.

On her fair breast a missal rests,
Illumed with various dyes,
In which were given far views of heaven
In old transparencies.
There hangs the everlasting cross
Of emerald and of gold,
That cross of Christ so often kissed
When she her beads had told.

Those things are all forgotten now,
Far other thoughts remain;
And as she dreams she ever renes,
"I seek for Ballenden."
Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden!
Whatever, where'er thou be,
That ladye fair is dying there,
And all for love of thee.

IV.

In the old howf of the Canongate
There is a little lair,
And on it grows a pure white rose,
By love implanted there;
And o'er it hangs a youthful man,
With a cloud upon his brow,
And sair he moans, and sair he groans,
For her who sleeps below.

No noble lord nor banneret,
Nor courtly knight is he,
No more than a simple advocate,
Who pleadeth for his fee.
He holds a letter in his hand,
On which bleared eyes are bent,
It came afar from Almanzar,
The Duke of Bonavent—

A noble duke whom he had seen
In his castle by the sea,
When for one night he claimed the right
Of his high courtesie;
And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write
In sorrow, sooth to say,
That my dear child, fair Emergilde,
Hath from us flown away;

"And all the trace that I can find
Is this, and nothing more,
She took to sea at Tripoli
For Scotland's distant shore.
It is a feat of strange conceit
That fills us with alarms:
Oh seek about, and find her out,
And send her to our arms."

V.

And who is he this letter reads
With tears the words atween?
Yea! even he she had sought to see,
The sair-sought Ballenden.
Yet little little had he thought,
When away in that far countrie,
That a look she had got of a humble Scot
Would ever remembered be.

But tho' he had deemed himself forgot
By one so far away,
Her image had still, against his will,
Him haunted night and day.
And when he laid him on his bed,
And sair inclined to sleep,
That face would still, against his will,
Its holy vigil keep.

Oh gentle youth, thou little thought,
When away in our north countrie,
That up and down, thro' all the town,
That ladye sought for thee.
And little little did thou wot
What in Euphan's room was seen,
Where, as she died, she whispering sighed,
"I die for Ballenden."[A]

[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus:

Angry and sad shall be my way
If I behold not her afar,
And yet I know not when that day
Shall rise, for still she dwells afar.
God, who has formed this fair array
Of worlds, and placed my love afar,
Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray,
Of seeing her I love afar.
]

VII.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR.

I.

The baron has gone to the hunting green,
All by the ancient Castle of Weir,
With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin,
And a maiden, his only daughter dear—
The Ladye Tomasine, famed around
For beauty as well as for courtesie,
Wherever might sensible heads be found,
Or ears to listen, or eyes to see.
Nor merely skin-deep was she fair:
She had a spirit both true and leal,
As all about the Castle of Weir
Were many to know, and many to tell.
Right well she knew what it was to feel
Grim poverty in declining day,
With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal,
And tears to bless what she gave away;
Yet she was blithe and she was gay.
And now she has gone to the hunting green,
All on this bright and sunshiny day,
To fly her favourite peregrine,
With her hunting coat of the baudykin,
Down which there flowed her raven hair,
And her kirtle of the red sendal fine,
With an eagle's plume in her heading gear.

II.

If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist,
He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen,
And the quarry of which he was in quest
Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine;
But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite,
With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop,
And wanted the bold and daring flight
That mounts to the sun to make a swoop.

The Baron of Weir points to the sky,
"Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing!
Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie!
Off with the jesses—away him fling!"
"Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid,
As with nimble fingers she him unjessed,
"Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread,
Then back to thy mistress to be caressed."
Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry,
And eyed his quarry, yet far away,
Still up and up in the dark blue sky,
That he might aim a swoop on his prey;
Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove
On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear,
Shoots away from his enemy over above,
And makes for the rushing Water of Weir.

III.

The Water of Weir is rushing down,
Foaming and furious, muddy and brown,
From the heights where the laughing Näiads dwell,
And cascades leap from the craggy fell,
Where the mountain streamlets brattle and brawl,
'Midst the mountain maidens' echoing call,
Through pools where the water-kelpies wait
For the rider who dares the roaring spate.
Rain-fed, proud, turgid, and swollen,
Now foaming wild, now sombre and sullen;
Dragging the rushes from banks and braes,
Tearing the drooping branches of trees,
Rolling them down by scallop and scaur,
Involving all in a watery war—
Turned, and whirled, and swept along,
Down to the sea to be buried and gone.

The peregrine, fixed on the wader's back,
Is carried along in her devious track,
As with a weak and a wailing scream
The victim crosses the raging stream.
"I will lose, I will lose my gay peregrine!"
Cried shrilly the Ladye Tomasine:
She will hurry across the bridge of wood,
With its rail of wattle which long hath stood;
Her nimble feet are upon the plank
That will bear her over from bank to bank;
She has crossed it times a thousandfold:
Time brings youth and Time makes old;
The wattles have rotted while she was growing,
The wind is up and the waters rowing,
And to keep her feet she must use her hand.
"Come back! come back!" was the baron's command,
Too late!—go wattles—a piercing scream!
And the maid falls into the roaring stream!
Round and round, in eddying whirl,
Who shall save the perishing girl?
Round and round, and down and away,
Nothing to grasp, and nothing to stay.
The baron stands fixed and wrings his hands,
And looks to Sir Hubert, who trembling stands.
Sir Hubert! one moment now is thine—
The next! and a power no less than divine
Can save this maid of so many charms
From the grasp of Death's enfolding arms.
Spring! spring! Sir Hubert, the moment is thine
To save a life, and a love to win.
No! no! the dastard kestrel kite
Aye hugs the earth in his stealthy flight.
Hope gone! the pool at the otter's cave
Will prove the Ladye Tomasine's grave.
Ho! ho! see yonder comes rushing down
A lithe young hind, though a simple clown—
Off bonnet and shoes, and coat and vest,
A plunge! and he holds her round the waist!
Three strokes of his arm, with his beautiful prize
All safe, although faint, on the bank she lies!
A cottager's wife came running down,
"Take care of the ladye," said the clown.
He has donned his clothes, and away he has gone,
His name unuttered, his home unknown.

IV.

Up in the ancient Castle of Weir
Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine;
And the baron he looked at his daughter dear,
While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne;
And then to the steward, with hat in hand:
"Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne,
A hundred rose nobles I'll give to the man
Who saved the life of my Tomasine."
Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein,
"Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon?
There's no one to say he would know him again,
And another may claim the golden boon."
Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed,
And I never did see this wondrous man;
And the cottar woman she hath deposed
He was gone ere his features she could scan."
"Ho!" cried the baron, "I watched him then,
As I stood on the opposite bank afeared;
Of a hundred men I would ken him again,
Though he were to doff his dun-brown beard."

A year has passed at the Castle of Weir,
Yet no one has claimed the golden don;
Most wonderful thing to tell or to hear!
Was he of flesh and blood and bone?
Though golden nobles might not him wile,
Was there not something more benign?
Was not for him a maiden's smile?
Was not that maiden Tomasine?

V.

The ladye sat within her summer bower
Alone, deep musing, in the still greenwood;
Sadly and slowly passed the evening hour,
Sad and sorrowful was her weary mood,
For she had seen, beneath a shadowing tree,
All fast asleep a beauteous rural swain,
Whom she had often sighed again to see,
But never yet had chanced to see again;—
So beautiful that, if the time had been
In a long mythic age now past and gone,
She might have deemed that she had haply seen
The all-divine Latona's fair-haired son
Come down upon our earth to pass a day
Among the daughters fair of earth-born men,
And had put on a suit of sober grey,
To appear unto them as a rural swain.
With features all so sweet in harmony,
You might have feigned they breathed a music mild,
With lire so peachy, fit to charm the eye,
And lips right sure to conquer when they smiled,
All seen through locks of lustrous auburn hair,
Which wanton fairies had so gaily thrown
To cover o'er a face so wondrous fair,
Lest Dian might reclaim him as her own.

In the still moonlit hour there steals along,
And falls upon her roused and listening ear
The notes of some night-wandering minstrel's song,
And oh! so sweet and sad it was to hear.
You might have deemed it came from teylin sweet,
Touched by some gentle fairy's cunning hand,
To tell us of those joys that we shall meet
In some far distant and far happier land;
And oft at night, as time still passed away,
That hopeless song throughout the greenwood came,
And oft she heard repeated in the lay
The well-known sound of her own maiden name;
And often did she wish, and often sighed,
That bashful minstrel for once more to see,
To know if he were him she had espied
All fast asleep beneath the greenwood tree.

VI.

Alace! and alace! for that false pride
In the hearts of those of high degree,
And that gentle love should be decried
By its noblest champion, Chivalrie.
If the baron shall hear a whispered word
Of that fond lover's sweet minstrelsie,
That love-lorn heart and his angry sword
May some night better acquainted be.
Woe! woe! to the viper's envenomed tongue
That obeys the hest of a coward's heart,
Who tries to avenge his fancied wrong
By getting another to act his part.
Sir Hubert has lisped in the baron's ear,
When drinking wine at the evening hour,
That a minstrel clown met his daughter dear
At night in her lonely greenwood bower.
"Hush! hush! Sir Hubert, thy words are fires;
Elves are about us that hear and see,
Who may tell to the ghost of my noble sires
Of a damned blot on our pedigree."
And the baron frowned with darkened brow,
And by the bones of his fathers swore
That from that night this minstrel theou,
To his daughter would warble his love no more.

VII.

That night the minstrel sang in softer flow,
Waxing and waning soft and softer still,
Like autumn's night winds breathing loun and low,
Or evening murmur of the wimpling rill;
But there was heard that night no farewell strain,
As in foretime there ever used to be—
A stop! and then no more was heard again
That bashful lover's hapless minstrelsie.
Next morn the maid, with purpose to enjoy
The forest flowers and wild birds' early song,
Unto the greenwood went; and to employ
Her weary musing as she went along,
Love's magic memory from its depths upbrought
The notes that ever still so sweetly hung
About her heart; and as she gaily thought,
She sung them o'er as she had heard them sung.
Onward she moved: her dreamy, listless eye
Had leant upon a fragrant wild-rose bed,
And, glancing farther, what does she descry?
Stretched stiff and bloody, his sad spirit fled,
Yea, him whom when asleep she once had seen,
And had so often wished again to see,
Now dead and cold 'mong the leaves so green,
And all beneath the well-known greenwood tree.

"Good day, my ladye," then some one said—
It was Sir Hubert there close behind;
"He will sing no more, or I am belied,
For the reason, I wot, that he wanteth wind."
Up came the baron in angry vein;
He casts his eye on the body there;
He scans the features again and again
With a look of doubt and shudder of fear;
His hands he wrings with a groan of pain,
He rolls his eyeballs with gesture wild—
"Great God! by a villain's counsel I've slain
The youth who saved my darling child!"

Among yon hoary elms that o'er him grow
A harp is hung to catch the evening gale,
That sings to him in accents soft and low,
And soothes the maiden with its sorrowful wail,
Who, as she sits within her greenwood bower,
And listens to the teylin's solemn strain,
Bethinks her, in her tears, of every hour
That gentle youth had sung to her in vain.

VIII.

THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND.

I.
Of Scotland's cities, still the rarest
Is ancient Edinburgh town;
And of her ladies, still the fairest
There you see walk up and down:
Be they gay, or be they gayless,
There they beck and there they bow,
From the Castle to the Palace,
In farthingale and furbelow.

Says Lady Jane to Lady Janet,
"Thy gown, I vow, is stiff and grand;
Though there were feint a body in it,
Still I trow that it would stand."
And Lady Janet makes rejoinder:
"Thy boddice, madam, is sae tend,
The bonny back may crack asunder,
But, by my faith, it winna bend."

But few knew one both fairer, kinder,
The fair maid of St. Mary's Wynd;
Among the great you will not find her,
For she was of the humbler kind.
For her minnie spinning, plodding,
She wore no ribbons to her shune,
No mob-cap on her head nid-nodding,
But aye the linsey-woolsey gown.

No Lady Jane in silks and laces,
How fair soever she might be,
Could match the face—the nature's graces
Of this poor, humble Marjorie:
Her eyes they were baith mirk and merry,
Her lire was as the lily fair,
Her lips were redder than the cherry,
And flaxen was her glossy hair.

Ye bucks who wear the coats silk-braided,
With satin ribbons at your knee,
And cambric ruffles starched and plaited,
With cockèd bonnets all ajee,
Who walk with mounted canes at even,
Up and down so jauntilie,
Ye would have given a blink of heaven
For one sweet smile from Marjorie.

But Marjory's care was aye her minnie,
And day by day she sat and span;
Nor did she think it aught but sin aye,
To bear the stare of gentleman:
She doated on her own dear Willie,
For dear to her fond heart was he,
Who, though his sire was poor, yet still he
Was far above the low degree.

It was aye said his father's father
Did claim some Spanish pedigree,
Which many well believed, the rather
That he was not of our countrie:
His skin was brown as nut of hazel,
His eye was black as Scottish sloe,
And all so bright that it would dazzle
The eye that looked that eye into.

There came into his head a notion,
Which wrought and wrought within his brain,
That he would cross th' Atlantic Ocean,
And seek the land of Spanish Main;
And there amass a routh of treasure,
And then come back with bosom leal
To his own Marjory, and release her
From rock and reel and spinning wheel.

Up spake the minnie—it did not please her
That he should "gae sae far frae hame:"
"Thou'lt reap less in yon Abiezer
Than thou wilt glean in this Ephraim;
For there's a proverb faileth never;
A lintie safe within the hand,
Though lean and lank, is better ever
Than is a fat finch on the wand."

Then Marjory, with eye so tearful,
Whispered in dark Willie's ear,
"Thou wilt not go and leave me careful,
Friendless, lanely, starving here;
My minnie God hath gien a warning,
And I can do nae mair than spin,
And slowly, slowly comes the earning
That with my wheel I daily win."

"Oh fear not, Marjory dear—content ye,
Blackfriar John hath to me sworn,
That man of God will kindly tent ye
Until that I again return;
And he has promised fair to write me
Of how ye live and prosper twain,
And I will faithfully requite ye
With my true love to you again."

II.

Dark Willie took his sad departure,
And left at home his Marjory dear
To doubt and fear from every quarter,
Weep—weeping sadly on the pier;
And o'er the sea, all dangers scorning,
And o'er the sea he boldly sailed,
Until upon the fortieth morning
The promised land at length he hailed.

Now! thou one of the fateful sisters
That spins for man the silver thread,
Spin one of gold that glints and glisters
For one who stands in meikle need;
Spin it quick and spin it finely,
Till Willie's golden fortune's made,
And send him back to Marjory kindly,
Who spins at home for daily bread.

There was a rich old Spanish señor,
Who bore dark Willie's Spanish name,
And came to feel the kindly tenor
Of plighted friendship's sacred claim:
He gave his right hand to dark Willie,
With shares of a great companie,
Which sent forth goods far o'er the billow,
In ships that sailed on every sea.

Don Pedro had an only daughter,
The Donna Clara, passing fair,
Who, when her sire took his departure,
Would be her father's only heir:
Her eyes, so like two sterns of even,
Shining the murky clouds among,
And black her ringlets as the raven,
That o'er her marble shoulders hung.

Oh Willie! Willie! have thou care, man!
And give unto thine heart a stay,
For there are witcheries working there, man,
May steal that heart of thine away.
No need! to him blue eyes are glowing,
To him most beautiful of all,
No need! for flaxen hair is flowing
To keep his loving heart in thrall.

III.

A year had passed, and he had written
Of loving letters more than one,
The while gold pieces still remitting
All to holy Blackfriar John;
Yet still no answer had he gotten;
And as the days still passed away,
He fell to musing, and deep thought on
What had caused the strange delay.

What now to him those golden pieces
That he so fastly now could earn?
Ah, love like his gives no releases,
However Clara's eyes might yearn;
He wandered hither, wandered thither,
By sad forebodings nightly tossed;
He wandered now, he wandered ever,
In mournful musing sadly lost.

But time would tell: there came a letter
That filled his soul with dire dismay,
And told him his dark fears' abettor,
His Marjory's health had flown away:
Even as the clay her cheek was paling,
Her azure eyes were waxing dim,
Her hair unkemp't, and loose, and trailing,
And all for hopeless love of him.

Sad harbinger of things to harrow,
Another came, ah! soon a day,
To tell him his dear winsome marrow
From this sad world had passed away.
No more for him those eyes so merry,
That were to him so sweet to see!
No more those lips red as the cherry,
That were to him so sweet to pree!

IV.

Alas! there are of things—we see them
Without the aid of wizard's spell;
But there are other things—we dree them,
No art of wizard can foretell:
Strange thing the heart where love has power,
So tossed with joy or racked with pain!
Dark Willie from that fatal hour
Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.