I loved her, but against my flame "I feigned repentance, friendship pure; "As means to search him; my deceit Nought but his picture's counterfeit, "The treachery took: she waited wild; "I felt her tears, for years and years, The very hate I bore her mate "Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane; And while she blessed his name, her smile Struck fire into my brain. "No fears could damp; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad-sword failed at last, "Twas long and well laid on. "This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.'. The wafer to his lips was borne, "He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale." The Abbot went for wine; And brought a little page who poured It out, and knelt and smiled; The stunned knight saw himself restored And stooped and caught him to his breast, And with a shower of kisses pressed The darling little one. "And where went Jane?" "To a nunnery, Sir Look not again so pale - Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.". "And she has ta'en the veil!". "Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three, And the boy played with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee. "Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The Abbot further said; "Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade. "Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life." "Hush, Abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, "Or tell me where's my wife." The priest undid two doors that hid The inn's adjacent room, And there a lovely woman stood, One moment may with bliss repay Such was the throb and mutual sob SONG. "MEN OF ENGLAND." MEN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood: By the foes you've fought uncounted, Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers What are monuments of bravery, Pageants! Let the world revere us Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled They defied the field and scaffold SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, That's told but to her mutual breast, Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear. THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind 18* |