35.

It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd amid the wine
A bridal ring of burnish'd gold so costly and so fine:
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but the sooth,
'Twas with that very ring of gold he pledged his bridal truth.

36.

Then to the cup-bearer he said, "Do me one kindly deed,
And should my better days return, full rich shall be thy meed;
Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride so gay,
And crave her of her courtesy to pledge the palmer gray."

37.

The cup-bearer was courtly bred, nor was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the bride;
"Lady," he said, " your reverend guest sends this, and bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the palmer gray."

38.

The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it close and near, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, "The Moringer is here!" Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell,— But whether 'twas for joy or woe the ladies best can tell.

39.

But loud she utter'd thanks to heaven, and every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer before the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride
That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried.

40.

"Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, "to constant matrons due,
Who keep the troth that they have plight so stedfastly and true;
For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night."

41.

It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew,

He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his weapon threw ; "My oath and knightly faith are broke," these were the words he said, "Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head."

4.2.

The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say,

"He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelvemonths and a day; My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir."

43.

The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old,
Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually were told;
"But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late!"

THE GRAVE OF CRAZY JANE

From the MS. of the late John Finlay, Author of Wallace, &c.

1.

PEACEFUL is the grave of lovers,

When from all their cares they sleep,

Soft the turf their bosom covers,

And their eyes have ceased to weep.

In this valley silent wandering,

Oft I mark at dewy e'en,

Through the shades of twilight gathering,
The lone grave of Crazy Jane.

2.

Oft I heard the voice of anguish
Stealing down yon hawthorn glade,
And I mark'd the soft eyes languish
Of a poor and hapless maid.
Still my heart, with pity bleeding,
Listen'd to the melting strain;
Oh the canker, grief, was feeding
On the cheek of Crazy Jane!

3.

Now her heart has still'd its motion,
Every pang has pass'd away,
Now forsaking life's wild ocean,
Cold she mingles with the clay.
When the sun of silent evening
Tinges all the western main,
Then its radiance wild declining,
Gilds the grave of Crazy Jane.

4.

Mark the spot, where, silent yonder,
Shakes the leafless hawthorn tree;

Oft she'd wander there, and ponder,
Weeping o'er life's stormy sea.
There, when morning frost advancing,
Crisps with ice the sleeping wave,
See the red-breast softly chanting,
O'er her bare and lonely grave.

5.

If thou, red-breast, knew'st her sorrow,
Softer would thy wild note flow;
Thou her plaintive voice wouldst borrow,
Sweetly warbling strains of woe.
Yet when summer's suns are beaming
And the winds have ceased to rave,
Faithless, to the woods retiring,
Thou forsakest her lonely grave.

THE PALE CHEEK OF LOVE.

From the MS. of the late John Finlay.

I HEED not, Love, the rosy cheek
That burns with an impassion'd glow;
Dearer is thine, whose wan hues speak
Of feelings that have made it so.
Yet once the rosy cheek I blest,
In days that long are past and gone,
When all voluptuously it prest,

And breathed its warmth upon my own, When thou didst chide my froward will, That made its tinge a deeper still.

I mark'd o'er grief thy roses shed,
Like blooms on an untimely wind;
But lovelier as the roses fled,

I deem'd the lilies left behind.
Of thine own grief thou ne'er didst speak,
Yet well could I the cause divine;
The sorrows that did blanch thy cheek,
Were sorrows that arose from mine;
And hence I love the hue of woe,
That tells me thou hast loved me so.

THE DEATH OF KING JUAN OF CASTILLE,

AND

DON RAYMON OF BUTRAGO.

FROM THE OLD SPANISH.

"YOUR horse is faint, my King, my Lord, your gallant horse is sick,
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick :
Mount, mount on mine, oh mount apace, I pray thee mount and fly,
Or in my arms I'll lift your grace-their trampling hoofs are nigh."

"My King, my King, you're wounded sore, the blood runs from your feet—
But only lay your hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat-
Fly, Juan, fly, the Moors are near-I hear their Arab cry-
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy-I'll save you though I die.

"Stand, noble steed, this hour of need, be gentle as a lamb-
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, thy master dear I am :
Mount, mount, and ride, whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,
And plunge your rowels in his side-Bavieca, save my King!

"Nay, never speak-my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,
And joyfully their blood shall spring-so be it thine secures.
If you should die, and Raymon fly, 'twould stain Butrago's line-
My boy would curse my hoary hairs, and wish he were not mine."

"Oh, Raymon!"-" Nay-oh, Juan, no time for parley now-
Look back, and see their banners-they've gained the mountain's brow:
A moment more, and Juan's lost-nay, never think of me-
I mount no more-I know my post-at least I'll die with thee."

King Juan's horse fell lifeless-Don Raymon's horse stood by,
Nor king nor lord would mount him-they both prepare to die.

'Gainst the same tree their backs they placed... they hacked the king in twainDon Raymon's arms his corpse embraced-and so they both were slain.

But when the Moor Almasar beheld what had been done,
He oped Lord Raymon's vizor, while down his tears did run;
He oped his vizor, stooping then he kiss'd the forehead cold-

"God grant may ne'er to Christian men this Moorish shame be told!"

LETTER FROM CAPT. MAITLAND, R. N.

[Captain Maitland, R. N., who commanded his Majesty's ship Bellerophon, when Napoleon Buonaparte surrendered himself in the year 1815, has done us the honour to write the following letter, the object of which is to correct an inaccuracy, which we had very unintentionally committed, in our account of the Ex-Emperor's behaviour, while on board his vessel. The letter is addressed to the printers; but we have preferred adhering to Captain Maitland's own method.]