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Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee

Christian climes should we behold ?” “ Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee

Were thy ransom paid in gold!” Now in Heaven's blue expansion

Rose the midnight star to view, When to quit her father's mansion

Thrice she wept, and bade adieu! “ Fly we then, while none discover! Tyrant barks, in vain

ye ride!" Soon at Rhodes the British lover

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern Bride.

And led each arm to act, each heart to feel
What British valor owes to Britain's weal.
These were his public virtues :--but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name-
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief,
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,
Save in Religion's high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.


The brave Roland !-the brave Roland !-
ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :-

False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand

That he had fall'n in fight; “Oh whither," she cried, “ hast thou wander'd, my

And thy faithful bosom swoond with pain, lover?

O loveliest maiden of Allemayne! Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ?

For the loss of thine own true knight. • What voice did I hear? 't was my Henry that

But why so rash has she ta’en the veil, sigh'd!” All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,

In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale?

For her vow had scarce been sworn, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

And the fatal mantle o'er her fung, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rungFrom his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was 'T was her own dear warrior's horn! streaming,

Woe! woe! each heart shall bleedshall break And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar!

She would have hung upon his neck, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

Had he come but yester-even: That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

And he had clasp'd those peerless charms How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

That shall never, never fill his arms, How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

Or meet him but in heaven. “Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful

Yet Roland the brave-Roland the true night,

He could not bid that spot adieu ; To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?"

It was dear still 'midst his woes; " Thou shalt live," she replied, “Heaven's mercy,

For he loved to breathe the neighboring air relieving

And to think she blest him in her prayer, Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn."

When the Halleluiah rose. “Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

There's yet one window of that pile,

Which he built above the Nun's green isle; “Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Thence sad and oft look'd he
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!” (When the chant and organ sounded slow)
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, On the mansion of his love below,
When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded For herself he might not see.

She died !—He sought the battle-plain!
Her image fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell and wish'd to fall :

And her name was in his latest sigh,

When Roland, the flower of chivalry,

Expired at Roncevall.
Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G.
Campbell, K. C. B. to the memory of her Husband.

I The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part,

called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine,

is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd,

nunnery. into which his mistress bad retired, on having heard Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,

an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be This stone is rear'd: to public duty true,

thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be The seaman's friend, the father of his crew,

recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,

romantic landscape of the Drachenfalls, tho Rolandseck, and

the beautifol adjacent inlet of the Rhino, where a nunnery still He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, stands.




I gazed, and felt upon my lips

Th' unfinish'd accents hang : One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,

To rapture changed each pang. And though as swift as lightning's flash

Those tranced moments flew, Not all the waves of time shall wash

Their memory from my view.
But duly shall my raptured song,

And gladly shall my eyes,
Still bless this day's return, as long

As thou shalt see it rise.

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid

forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing

cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted

bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the

birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a church

yard's dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's

delicious hue. What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shud

dering, pale, and dumb, Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his

hour was come. 'T' was now the dead-watch of the night-the helm

was lash'd a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the

deep Levantine sea ; When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a

woman in her shroud. Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood

up and spoke aloud :




This wax returns not back more fair

Th' impression of the gift you send, Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear

The image of your worth, my friend ! We are not friends of yesterday ;

But poets' fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool (they say)

By turns impressible and brittle. Well! should its frailty e'er condemn

My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem,

And mine the waxen brittleness.

"Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still

wanders unforgiven! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my

peace with Heaven!"It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to

meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing

serpent's thrall. You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted

from the sight, For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue

with hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of

her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the

cock crew from the land.

What transcripts of my weal and woe

This little signet yet may lock, What utt'rances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock!
What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page

May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page

And feelings of futurity S
Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date th' epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet: Sent when the star that rules your fates

Hath reach'd its influence most benignWhen every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song-mark’d with the crest

That erst th' advent'rous Norman’ wore Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillain Mor. Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd

With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield

Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!



If any white-wing'd Power above

My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love

He surely bless'd that day.
I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told

Of Beauty's magic powers,
That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold,

And changed its weeds to Aowers.
My mind had lovely shapes portray'd;

But thought I earth had one
Could make ev'n Fancy's visions fade

Like stars before the sun ?

1 A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung.

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,

And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,

And slew the slanderer of her fame.

Yet little might I prize the stone,

If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown

In Fortune's mutability.
No-but it tells me of a heart,

Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art-

Our soul-sprung consanguinity! Kath'rine! to many an hour of mine

Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine

The all-in-all of life-Content!

She wept, deliver'd from her danger;

But when he knelt to claim her glove“ Seek not," she cried, “oh! gallant stranger,

For hapless Adelgitha's love. · For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free ; And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me." "Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!'

He raised his vizor—At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted;

It was indeed her own true knight!

The last, the fatal hour is come,

That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,

I mark the gallows' tree!
The bell has tolld: it shakes my heart;

The trumpet speaks thy name; And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame?


'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,

It is not doubting what thou art, But 't is the too, too long endurance

Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,

When each is lonely doom'd to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish,

Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,

Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; Th' undoubting heart that breaks with sadness

Is but more slowly doom'd to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,

The pain without the peace of death!

No bosom trembles for thy doom;

No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,

The sledge is all thy bier.
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then

So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen

You triumph'd o'er my heart?
Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,

Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the riband green

That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore

Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,

The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined

The guiltless to pursue ;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,

He could not injure you!
A long adieu! but where shall fly

Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scorn?
Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,

And hate thine orphan boy ;
Alas! his infant beauty wears

The form of Gilderoy.
Then will I seek the dreary mound

That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,

And sigh my heart away.


THE Ritter Bann from Hungary

Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry

And love and ladies' charms. While other knights held revels, he

Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room. There enter'd one whose face he knew,

Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer. "T was the Abbot of St. James's monks,

A fresh and fair old man: His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Ritter Bann.

“ 'T was smiling on that babe one morn,

While heath bloom'd on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn

As he hunted past our door. “ She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane,

And roused his mother's pride; Who came to us in high disdain,

* And where's the face,' she cried, " "Has witch'd my boy to wish for one

So wretched for his wife ?Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son

Has sworn to seek his life.'

“Her anger sore dismay'd us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us,

There was none to aid our want.

But seeing with him an ancient dame

Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter's color went and came,

And loud he spoke in ire.
"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,

Name not her name to me;
I wish it blotted from my brain :

Art poor !--take alms, and flee." “Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,

“ This case your ear demands;" And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed

In both her trembling hands :
“Remember, each his sentence waits ;

And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates

Of Mercy shall be shut.
* You wedded undispensed by Church,

Your cousin Jane in Spring :-
In Autumn, when you went to search

For churchmen's pardoning, " Her house denounced your marriage-band,

Betrothed her to De Grey,
And the ring you put upon her hand

Was wrench'd by force away.
* Then wept your Jane upon my neck,

Crying, · Help me, nurse, to fee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'

But word arrived-ah me “You were not there; and 't was their threat,

By foul means or by fair, Tomorrow morning was to set

The seal on her despair. "I had a son, a sea-boy, in

A ship at Hartland bay ;
By his aid, from her cruel kin

I bore my bird away.
* To Scotland from the Devon's

Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens

To Elijah, gave us bread.

“So I told her, weeping bitterly,

What all our woes had been ; And, though she was a stern ladie,

The tears stood in her een. “ And she housed us both, when, cheerfully,

My child to her had sworn,
That even if made a widow, she

Would never wed Kinghorn."'-
Here paused the nurse, and then began

The abbot, standing by :
“ Three months ago, a wounded man

To our abbey came to die.
He heard me long, with ghastly eyes


“ She wrote you by my son, but he

From England sent us word
You had gone into some far country,

In grief and gloom he heard.
" For they that wrong'd you, to elude

Your wrath, defamed my child;
And you—ay, blush, Sir, as you should

Believed, and were beguiled.
“ 'To die but at your feet, she vow'd

To roam the world; and we Would both have sped and begg'd our bread,

But so it might not be.

And hand obdurate clench'd, Speak of the worm that never dies,

And the fire that is not quench'd.

“ At last by what this scroll attests

He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts

His guilt had wrung with grief. ** There lived,' he said, “a fair young dame

Beneath my mother's roof;
I loved her, but against my flame

Her purity was proof.
«• I feign'd repentance, friendship pure;

That mood she did not check, But let her husband's miniature

Be copied from her neck.

** As means to search him, my deceit

Took care to him was borne Nought but his picture's counterfeit,

And Jane's reported scorn. « • The treachery took; she waited wild ;

My slave came back and lied Whate'er I wished ; she clasp'd her child,

And swoon'd, and all but died. «• I felt her tears for years, and years

Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her.

"For when the snow-storm beat our roof,

She bore a boy. Sir Bann,
Who grow as fair your likeness proof

As child e'er grew like man.

« • Fame told us of his glory, while

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, Joy flush'd the face of Jane;

She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart). And while she bless'd his name, her smile Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; Struck fire unto my brain.

And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. “ • No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp, Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, Sought out its champion ;

And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; And if my broad-sword fail'd at last,

When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, 'T was long and well laid on.

I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. “This wound 's my meed, my name is Kinghorn, When the road was so dark, and the night was so My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

cold, The wafer to his lips was borne,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, And we shrived the dying man.

How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,

And he lick'd me for kindness—my poor dog Tray. “ He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein ;

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his care, But I see my tale has changed you pale."- Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; The abbot went for wine;

But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,

And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. And brought a little page, who pour'd It out, and knelt and smiled :-

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? The stunn'd knight saw himself restored Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To childhood in his child ;

To my sweet native village, so far, far away,

I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,

Laugh'd loud and wept anon,
And with a shower of kisses press'd

The darling little one.

“And where went Jane?'_" To a nunnery, Sir-
Look not again so palem

Star that bringest home the bee,
Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."-

And sett'st the weary laborer free!
And has she ta'en the veil ?”

If any star shed peace, 't is thou,

That send'st it from above, “ Sit down, Sir," said the priest, “ I bar

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Rash words.”—They sat all three,

Are sweet as hers we love.
And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star,
As he kept him on his knee.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odors rise, “ Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,"

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
The abbot further said;

And songs, when toil is done, “ Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face

From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
More deep than cloister's shade.

Curls yellow in the sun. “Grief may have made her what you can

Star of love's soft interviews,
Scarce love perbaps for life.”

Parted lovers on thee muse; “ Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,

Their remembrancer in Heaven “Or tell me where's my wife.”

of thrilling vows thou art,

Too delicious to be riven
The priest undid two doors that hid

By absence from the heart.
The inn's adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay

“ MEN OF ENGLAND." Unnumber'd hours of pain ;

Men of England! who inherit Such was the throb and mutual sob

Rights that cost your sires their blood ! Of the Knight embracing Jane.

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and food
By the foes ye've fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye've done,

Trophies captured-breaches mounted,

Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won! On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,

Yet, remember, England gathers No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, No harp like my own could so cheerily play,

If the patriotism of your fathers And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

Glow not in your hearts the same.

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