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ELLA.

BY THE EDITOR.

"FIRMIN! on the rocky height;

Firmin o'er the sea,

The voice of war, through the dead of night,
Comes it not, O chief! to thee?

"For the peaceful chime of the midnight time,
Peal the bells from the Minster-tower;

In thundering sweep o'er the land and the deep,
The notes of danger's hour.

"The banners float fair on the forest air,

Near thy proud ancestral hall;

The cymbals clash high, and the trumpets loud reply, Heed'st not their airy call?"

I reck not-I,-for Ella sleeps

Beneath the lowly sod;

And there my heart unbodied keeps,
Its still and fixed abode.

Full twenty years in Ella's name,

I led my feudal powers;
And oft my silver Star of fame

Hath waved o'er hostile towers.

"When the Lilies pale, shrunk with tearful wail From the Lion and the Rood, My fealty clear, and faith sincere,

I oft have sealed in blood.

Where the burning rocks of the Desart shine

I've urged my knightly quest;

And the palm-trees fair, in Palestine,
Have fann'd my limbs to rest.

The crest of many a Paynim knight,
Hath decked my Ella's store;
Oft has she smiled, with looks of light,
As she has viewed them o'er.

But now, to long-remembered arms
I give no joyous hour;

For me no petty feud has charms

No feudal trumpet, power.

"Then, wilt thou sleep in dreaming sloth,

Thy days of sorrow here?

Must thy Christian faith, and thy knightly oath,

Lie crush'd in ruinș drear?

“Will the wife of thy soul, in joy look down

On a grief so wild and vain?

Or thus dost thou seek thy wishes' crown
Of an union with her again?"

No!-yet, ev'n yet, for Ella's love,

I'll mighty deeds essay;
Those nobler feats of worth I'll prove,
That lead to Heaven the way."

My opening buds, so sweet and fair,

I'll first secure amain;

Good Clement holds that tender care,
In Ina's holy fane.

In arms full clad, an Errant Knight,
I'll roam o'er hills and seas,
Restoring to the wrong'd, their right,
And to the afflicted, ease.

I'll 'venge the cause of orphans poor,
I'll crush the tyrants down;

I'll raise the meek, that pensive cow'r
Beneath a dastard's frown.

Once more, shall Ella's Chief have place
In many a minstrel's song;

And all the fruits his name that grace,
To Ella's love belong.

The bounteous store my Ella gave,

With hand unchecked, I'll spread; The worthy, from distress to save — To cheer the wretched's bed.

Last-when dissolving Age shall come,
To set my spirit free,

I'll take the cross to Salem's dome,
A palmer o'er the sea.

There, humbly laid at Christ's lov'd feet,

With him I'll trust to rise!

With smiles of dawning joy I'll meet
My Ella in the skies!"

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS.

THIS accident, which has attained a surprising celebrity for a private and domestic event, occurred about the middle of the twelfth century; previous to which, William Fitz-Duncan Romilly, the father, had laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword, and was afterwards established in the possession of them, by his uncle, David I., King of Scotland.

Bolton Strid is a fall of the Wharf, from the top of a lofty and steep rock, into Wharfdale. The chasm at the brink is not more than between two and three yards across; but at the time the Heir of Egremond took the leap, he held a greyhound in a leash, which, starting back, pulled him into the torrent, and he was dashed down the precipice, of course meeting with instant death. The Falconer's question, and the Lady AALIZA's answer (in the original terms), are still proverbially current in the neighbourhood.

A priory, which formerly stood at Embsay, was, at this time, removed to Bolton, to be near the spot of the accident, and as some solace to the afflicted mother. The conventual Church, of the early Gothic architecture, remains to this day,-a grand and picturesque ornament of the vale, which is considered to be one of the most beautiful spots in England. The choir and transepts are in ruins ; the nave is entire, and is used as a parish church.

The poet Wordsworth has written a ballad on the same subject; and has also illustrated this neighbourhood, in his "White Doe of Rylstone."-ED.

"Say, what remains when hope is fled?"
She answered, "Endless weeping!
For, in the herds-man's eye she read,

Who in his shroud lay sleeping.

At Embsay rung the matin-bell,*

The stag was roused on Barden-fell;

The mingled sounds were swelling-dying,
And down the Wharf a hern was flying;
When, near the cabin in the wood,

In tartan clad and forest-green,

With hound in leash and hawk in hood,

The boy of Egremond was seen.

Blithe was his song

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a song of yore;

But where the rock is rent in two,
And the river rushes through,

His voice was heard no more!

'T was but a step! the gulf he passed;

But that step-it was his last!

As through the mist he winged his way,
(A cloud that hovers night and day)
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The master, and his merlin too.

That narrow place of noise and strife,
Received their little all of life!

There, now the matin-bell is rung;
The "MISERERE!" duly sung;

And holy men in cowl and hood,
Are wandering up and down the wood.
But what avail they? Ruthless Lord,
Thou did'st not shudder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless and the innocent!
Sit now and answer groan for groan;
The child before thee is thy own-
And she who wildly wanders there,

The mother, in her long despair,

* Mr. Wordsworth's ballad mentions an additional aggravation of the calamity of this fatal morn; viz., that it was the day previous to the intended nuptials of the young heir.

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