Sidor som bilder

Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day

In that lone isle, where waved on high
The dun deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side,
Her station claim'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Græme,
Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd.
Those who such simple joys have known
Are taught to prize them when they're gone,
But sudden, see, she lifts her head!
The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this woful hour!
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.



"My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,.
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forest green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

"I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

"No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee.-
That life is lost to love and me!"


The heart-sick lay was hardly said,
The listener had not turn'd her head,
It trickled still, the starting tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
"O welcome, brave Fitz-James !" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt"-" O say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.
Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.

No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lead his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come !-'tis more than time;
He holds his court at morning prime."-
With beating heart and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung;
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper'd hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half stay'd,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.


Within 'twas brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even, And, from their tissue, fancy frames, Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz-James her footing stay'd, A few faint steps she forward made, Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence gazed; For him she sought who own'd this state, The dreadful prince whose will was fate!She gazed on many a princely port, Might well have ruled a royal court; On many a splendid garb she gazed— Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed, For all stood bare: and, in the room, Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady's look was lent; On him each courtier's eye was bent; Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen, He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The centre of the glittering ring; And Snowdoun's knight is Scotland's king.


As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the monarch's feet she lay;
No word her choking voice commands-
She show'd the ring-she clasp'd her hands.
O! not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her-and, the while,
Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd ;-
"Yes, fair, the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask naught for Douglas :-yestereven
His prince and he have much forgiven:
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue!
I, from his rebel kinsman, wrong.

We would not to the vulgar crowd
Yield what they craved with clamour loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause;
Our council aided, and our laws.

I stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell's lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our throne.-
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid-
Thou must confirm this doubting maid."


Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of power-
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On nature's raptures long should pry;
He stepp'd between-" Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!
The riddle 'tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.-
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way,
'Tis under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils-for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James.
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause."
Then in a tone apart and low,
-"Ah, little trait'ress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Ben-venue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!"
Aloud he spoke-"Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring-
What seeks fair Ellen of the king?"


Full well the conscious maiden guess'd
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broads word boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.-
"Forbear thy suit ;-the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings:
I knew his heart, I knew his hand,
Have shared his cheer and proved his brand.

My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live!-
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save ?"-
Blushing she turn'd her from the king,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wished her sire to speak
The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.-
"Nay, then my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.
Malcolm, come forth!"-And, at the word,
Down kneel'd the Græme to Scotland's lord.
"For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Has paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.-
Fetters and warder for the Græme!"
His chain of gold the king unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

Harp of the north, farewell! the hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark;
The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing

Yet once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp,

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on iife's long way,
Thro' secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,
And bitter was the grief devour'd alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, enchantress! is thine


Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire

Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing; Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell-And now, 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee well.


And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's land, To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's hand.

"The blessings of the evil genii, which are curses, were upon him.' Eastern Tale.

This ballad was written at the request of Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder. It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, however, partly historical; for it is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, a knight templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin, under the walls of Jerusalem.

BOLD knights and fair dames, to my harp give an ear,
Of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear;
you haply may sigh, in the midst of your glee,
At the tale of Count Albert, and fair Rosalie.

O see you that castle, so strong and so high?
And see you that lady, the tear in her eye?
And see you that palmer from Palestine's land,
The shell on his hat, and the staff in his hand?

"Now, palmer, gray palmer, O tell unto me,
What news bring you home from the Holy Countrie?
And how goes the warfare by Galilee's strand?
And how fare our nobles, the flower of the land ?"

"O well goes the warfare by Galilee's wave,
For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah we have;
And well fare our nobles by Mount Lebanon,
For the heathen have lost, and the Christians have

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Small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie, Small thought on his faith, or his knighthood had he; A heathenish damsel his light heart had won, The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Lebanon. "O Christian, brave Christian, my love wouldst thou be,

Three things must thou do ere I hearken to thee; Our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou take; And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's sake.

"And, next, in the cavern, where burns evermore The mystical flame which the Kurdmans adore, Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt thou wake; And this thou shalt next do for Zulema's sake. "And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel and To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's land; hand, For my lord and my love then Count Albert I'll take, When all this is accomplish'd for Zulema's sake.”

He has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled sword,

Renouncing his knighthood, denying his Lord; He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban put on, For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon.

Which fifty steel gates and steel portals surround, And in the dread cavern, deep, deep under ground, He has watch'd until daybreak, but sight saw he none,

Save the flame burning bright on its altar of stone.

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High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, And he turn'd him five steps, half resolved to retreat;

O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed; But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose was And she's ta'en a sword, should be sharp at her



When he thought of the maid of fair Lebanon.

Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trod,

But true men have said, that the lightning's red wing

When the winds from the four points of heaven Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.

were abroad;

They made each steel portal to rattle and ring,
And, borne on the blast, came the dread Fire-King.
Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh;
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the monarch of flame.

Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm;
I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was tame,
When he saw in his terrors the monarch of flame.

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In his hand a broad falchion blue glimmer'd through The Saracens, Kurdmans, and Ishmaelites yield smoke, To the scallop, the saltier, and crosletted shield; And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead, spoke: From Bethsaida's fountains to Napthali's head.

"With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.

and no more,

Till thou bend to the cross, and the virgin adore."

The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon; and,


O! who is yon Paynim lies stretched mid the


And who is yon page lying cold at his knee?
O! who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

The recreant receives the charm'd gift on his The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,


The thunders grow distant, and faint gleam fires,


As, borne on his whirlwind, the phantom retires.
Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among;
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was

The count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy our lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.

Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell,
How the red-cross it conquer'd, the crescent it fell;
And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid their

And the red-cross wax'd faint, and the crescent At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

came on,

From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon.

From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave,
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave;
Till the knights of the temple and knights of St.

With Salem's king Baldwin, against him came on.

The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couch'd, and they closed on each


And horsemen and horses Count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin


Against the charm❜d blade which Count Albert did


The fence had been vain of the king's red-cross shield;


THIS is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more: halloo, with which the spectre huntsman cheered

But a page thrust him forward the monarch before,

And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.

So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low
Before the cross'd shield, to his steel saddle-bow;
And scarce had he bent to the red-cross his head,
"Bonne grace, notre dame," he unwittingly said.
Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was
o'er ;

his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, "Gluck zu, Falkenburg!" (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!) "Dost thou wish me good sport?" answered a hoarse voice; "thou shalt share the game;" and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variation, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aërial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in "Sully's Memoirs," who says he was I called Le Grande Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert.

The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Ross-shire.

"Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross-
So to the simple swain tradition tells→→
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen:-
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale
Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'eraw'd, and trembling as he stands,
To what or whom he owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds."

Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168.

A posthumous miracle of father Lesly, a Scottish Capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted relics had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian.

THE wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful men to pray,

Loud, long, and deep, the bell had toll'd:

But still the wildgrave onward rides ;
Halloo, halloo! and hark again!
When, spurring from opposing sides,

Two stranger horsemen join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right,

Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

The right hand horseman, young and fair,
His smile was like the morn of May;
The left, from eye of tawny glare,
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky,

To match the princely chase, afford ?"

"Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,"

Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; "And for devotion's choral swell Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.

"To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the warning spirit hear,

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."

"Away, and sweep the glades along!"
The sable hunter hoarse replies;
"To muttering monks leave matin song,
And bells, and books, and mysteries."

The wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed,
And, lanching forward with a bound,
"Who, for thy drowsy priest-like rede,
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

"Hence, if our manly sport offend!

With pious fools go chant and pray: Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend; Halloo, halloo and, hark away!"

The wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,
Each stranger horseman follow'd still.

Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,

A stag more white than mountain snow: And louder rung the wildgrave's horn, "Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!"

A heedless wretch had cross'd the way;
He gasps, the thundering hoofs below:
But, live who can, or die who may,
Still," Forward, forward!" on they go.
See, where yon simple fences meet,

A field with autumn's blessings crown'd;
See, prostrate at the wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman, with toil embrown'd:

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