"Then haste, my love, escape away,
And for thyself provide ;
And sometimes fondly think on her
Who should have been thy bride!"

Thus pouring comfort on my soul,
E'en with her latest breath,
She gave one parting fond embrace,
And closed her eyes in death.

In wild amaze,- -in speechless woe,
Devoid of sense I lay :

Then sudden, all in frantic mood,
I meant myself to slay :

And rising up in furious haste,
I seized the bloody brand:*
A sturdy arm here interposed,

And wrenched it from my hand.

A crowd, that from the castle came,
Had missed their lovely ward;
And seizing me, to prison bare,
And deep in dungeon barred.

It chanced, that on that very morn
Their chief was prisoner ta'en:
Lord Percy had us soon exchanged,
And strove to soothe my pain.

And soon these honoured, dear remains,
To England were conveyed;
And there, within their silent tombs,
With holy rites were laid.

For me, I loathed my wretched life,

And oft to end it sought;

* Sword.

Till time, and thought, and holy men,
Had better counsels taught.

They raised my heart to that pure source,
Whence heavenly comfort flows:
They taught me to despise the world,
And calmly bear its woes.

No more the slave of human pride,
Vain hope, and sordid care;
I meekly vowed to spend my life
In penitence and prayer.

The bold Sir Bertram, now no more
Impetuous, haughty, wild;
poor and humble Benedict,
Now lowly, patient, mild.

But

My lands I gave to feed the poor,

And sacred altars raise; And here a lonely anchorite, I came to end my days.

This sweet, sequestered vale I chose,
These rocks, and hanging grove ;
For oft beside this murmuring stream
My love was wont to rove.

My noble friend approved my choice;
This bless'd retreat he gave :

And here I carved her beauteous form,

And scooped this holy cave.

Full fifty winters, all forlorn,

My life I've lingered here;

And daily o'er this sculptured saint

I drop the pensive tear.

And thou, dear brother of my heart!

So faithful and so true,

The sad remembrance of thy fate

Still makes my bosom rue!

Yet not unpitied passed my life,
Forsaken, or forgot;
The Percy and his noble son
Would grace my lowly cot.

Oft the great Earl, from toils of state,
And cumb'rous pomp of power,
Would gladly seek my little cell,
To spend the tranquil hour.

But length of life is length of woe!
I lived to mourn his fall:
I lived to mourn his godlike son,
Their friends and followers all.

But thou the honours of thy race,
Loved youth, shall now restore;
And raise again the Percy name
More glorious than before.

He ceased, and on the lovely pair
His choicest blessings laid:

While they with thanks and pitying tears

His mournful tale repaid.

And now what present course to take,

They ask the good old sire;

And guided by his sage advice,

To Scotland they retire.

Meantime their suit such favour found

At Raby's stately hall,

Earl Neville and his princely spouse

Now gladly pardon all.

She, suppliant at her* nephew's throne,

The royal grace implored:

To all the honours of his race

The Percy was restored.

The youthful Earl still more and more
Admired his beauteous dame :

Nine noble sons to him she bore,
All worthy of their name.

*King Henry V.-A.D. 1418.

THE BATTLE OF CUTON-MOOR.

DAVID I., king of Scotland, first invaded England in 1137, but by the powerfully eloquent and pious mediation of Thurstan, archbishop of York, he was induced to suspend his warfare till the return of Stephen from Normandy; when, it was hoped, that his claim on Northumberland might be amicably settled. This, however, not taking place, he again made an incursion, after Easter, 1138. The leaders on both sides, and the events of the engagement, which is better known by the appellation of the "Battle of the Standard," are faithfully related in the following ballad.

THE welkin dark o'er Cuton-Moor,
With dreary clouds did lower!—
The woeful carnage of that day
Shall Scotland aye deplore.

The river Tees full oft did sigh,

As she rolled her winding flood,

That ever her silver tide so clear,

Should be swelled with human blood.

King David he stood on the rising hill,
And the verdant prospect viewed ;

And he saw that sweet river which over the moor
Rolled on her silver flood.