Then dark, dark lower'd the baron's eye, And his red cheek changed to wan; For again at the gate more furiously, The thundering din began.

"And is there ne'er of my vassals here,

Of high or low degree,
That will unto this stranger go,-
Will go for the love of me?"

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red,(A fearless man was he,)

"Yes; I will straight to the castle gate,

Lord John, for the love of thee."

With heart full stout, he hied him out,

Whilst silent all remain ;

Nor moved a tongue those gallants among,
Till Donald return'd again.

"O speak," said his lord, "by thy hopes of grace, What stranger must we hail ?"

But the haggard look of Donald's face

Made his faltering words to fail.

"It is a knight in some foreign guise, His like did I never behold;

For the stony look of his beamless eyes Made my very life-blood cold.

"I did him greet in fashion meet,

And bade him your feast partake,

But the voice that spoke, when he silence broke, Made the earth beneath me quake.

"O such a tone did tongue ne'er own That dwelt in mortal head ;

It is like a sound from the hollow ground,Like the voice of the coffin'd dead.

"I bade him to your social board.

But in he will not hie,

Until at the gate this castle's lord Shall entreat him courteously.

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd
The big drops from his brow,

As louder still the third time roar'd

The thundering gate below.

"O rouse thee, baron, for manhood's worth!
Let good or ill befall,

Thou must to the stranger knight go forth,
And ask him to your hall."

"Rouse thy bold breast," said each eager guest, "What boots it shrinking so?

Be it fiend, or sprite, or murder'd knight,
In God's name thou must go.

"Why shouldst thou fear? dost thou not wear
A gift from the great Glendower,
Sandals blest by a holy priest,

O'er which naught ill hath power?"

All ghastly pale did the baron quail,
As he turn'd him to the door,

And his sandals blest, by a holy priest,

Sound feebly on the floor.

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all,

He cast his parting eye,

"God send thee amain, safe back again!"

He heaved a heavy sigh.

Then listen'd they, on the lengthen'd way,
To his faint and lessening tread,
And, when that was past, to the wailing blast,
That wail'd as for the dead.

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew,
And it rose with an elrich sound,
Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep,
Fell hurling to the ground.

Each fearful eye then glanced on high,
To the lofty-window'd wall,
When a fiery trace of the baron's face
Through the casements shone on all.

smile,

And sternly bade me say,

'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask
To the feast of the woody bay."

Pale grew the baron, and faintly said,
As he heaved his breath with pain,
"From such a feast as there was spread,
Do any return again?

"I bade my guest to a bloody feast,

Where the death's wound was his fare,

And the isle's bright maid, who my love betray'd, She tore her raven hair.

And the raging tempest ceased, And never more on sea or shore, Was seen Lord John of the East.

The sandals, blest by a holy priest,

Lay unscath'd on the swarded green, But never again on land or main, Lord John of the East was seen.

MALCOM'S HEIR.

And the deafening billows roar,

Where he unblest was put to rest,

On a wild and distant shore.

"Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave

Give up their dead again?

Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast

The spirits of the slain ?"

When the moon is in the wane,
And cross not o'er Duntorloch's bridge,
The farther bank to gain.

For there the Lady of the Stream
In dripping robes you'll spy,
A-singing to her pale, wan babe,
An elrich lullaby.

And stop not at the house of Merne,

On the eve of good Saint John,

For then the Swathed Knight walks his rounds With many a heavy moan.

All swathed is he in coffin weeds,

And a wound is in his breast,

And he points still to the gloomy vault,
Where they say his corse doth rest.
But pass not near Glencromar's tower,
Though the sun shine e'er so bright;
More dreaded is that in the noon of day,
Than these in the noon of night.

The nightshade rank grows in the court,
And snakes coil in the wall,
And bats lodge in the rifted spire,
And owls in the murky hall.

On it there shines no cheerful light,
But the deep-red setting sun
Gleams bloody red on its battlements
When day's fair course is run.
And fearfully in night's pale beams,

When the moon peers o'er the wood,

Its shadow grim stretch'd o'er the ground
Lies blackening many a rood.

No sweet bird's chirping there is heard,
No herd-boy's horn doth blow;

But the owlet hoots, and the pent blast sobs,
And loud croaks the carrion crow.

No marvel! for within its walls

Was done the deed unblest,

And in its noisome vaults the bones
Of a father's murderer rest.

He laid his father in the tomb

With deep and solemn wo,

As rumour tells, but righteous Heaven
Would not be mocked so.

There rest his bones in the mouldering earth,
By lord and by carle forgot;

But the foul, fell spirit that in them dwelt,
Rest hath it none, I wot!

"Another night," quoth Malcom's heir,
As he turn'd him fiercely round,
And closely clench'd his ireful hand,
And stamp'd upon the ground:
"Another night within your walls

I will not lay my head,

Though the clouds of heaven my roof should be, And the cold, dank earth my bed.

"Your younger son has now your love,

And my step-dame false your ear;

And his are your hawks, and his are your hounds, And his your dark-brown deer.

"To him you have given your noble steed,
As fleet as the passing wind;

But me have you shamed before my friends,
Like the son of a base-born hind."
Then answered him the white-hair'd chief,
Dim was his tearful eye,

"Proud son, thy anger is all too keen,
Thy spirit is all too high.

"Yet rest this night beneath my roof,
The wind blows cold and shrill,
With to-morrow's dawn, if it so must be,
E'en follow thy wayward will."

But nothing moved was Malcom's heir,
And never a word did he say,

But cursed his father in his heart,
And sternly strode away.

And his coal-black steed he mounted straight,
As twilight gather'd round,
And at his feet with eager speed

Ran Swain, his faithful hound.

Loud rose the blast, yet ne'ertheless
With furious speed rode he,

Till night, like the gloom of a cavern'd mine,
Had closed o'er tower and tree.

Loud rose the blast, thick fell the rain,
Keen flash'd the lightning red,
And loud the awful thunder roar'd
O'er his unshelter'd head.

At length full close before him shot
A flash of sheeted light,

And the high-arch'd gate of Glencromar's tower,
Glared on his dazzled sight.

His steed stood still, nor step would move,
Up look'd his wistful Swain,

And wagg'd his tail, and feebly whined;
He lighted down amain.

Through porch and court he pass'd, and still

His listening ear he bow'd,

Till beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed
The paved hall echoed loud.

And other echoes answer gave

From arches far and grand;

Close to his horse and his faithful dog

He took his fearful stand.

The night-birds shriek'd from the creviced roof,
And the fitful blast sung shrill;
But ere the midwatch of the night,

Were all things hush'd and still.
But in the midwatch of the night,
When hush'd was every sound,
Faint, doleful music struck his ear,

As if waked from the hollow ground. And loud and louder still it grew,

And upward still it wore,

Till it seem'd at the end of the farthest aisle

To enter the eastern door.

O! never did music of mortal make
Such dismal sounds contain;

A horrid elrich dirge it seem'd,—
A wild, unearthly strain.

The yell of pain, and the wail of wo,

And the short, shrill shriek of fear,
Through the winnowing sound of a furnace flame
Confusedly struck his ear.

And the serpent's hiss, and the tiger's growl,
And the famish'd vulture's cry,

Were mix'd at times, as with measured skill,
In this horrid harmony.

Up brizzled the locks of Malcom's heir, And his heart it quickly beat,

And his trembling steed shook under his hand, And Swain cower'd close to his feet.

When, lo! a faint light through the porch

Still strong and stronger grew,

And shed o'er the walls and the lofty roof
Its wan and dismal hue.

And slowly entering then appear'd,
Approaching with soundless tread,
A funeral band in dark array,

As in honour of the dead.

The first that walk'd were torchmen ten
To lighten their gloomy road,

And each wore the face of an angry fiend,
And on cloven goats' feet trod.

And the next that walk'd as mourners meet,
Were murderers twain and twain,
With bloody hands and surtout red,
Befoul'd with many a stain.

Each with a cut-cord round his neck,
And red-strain'd, starting eyen,
Show'd that upon the gibbet tree
His earthly end had been.

And after these, in solemn state,

There came an open bier,

Borne on black, shapeless, rampant forms, That did but half appear.

And on that bier a corse was laid,

As corse could never lie,

That did by decent hands composed

In nature's struggles die.

Nor stretch'd, nor swathed, but every limb

In strong distortion lay,

As in the throes of a violent death
Is fix'd the lifeless clay.

And in its breast was a broken knife,

With the black blood bolter'd round;
And its face was the face of an aged man,
With the filleted locks unbound.

Its features were fix'd in horrid strength,
And the glaze of its half-closed eye
A last dread parting look express'd,
Of wo and agony.

But, oh! the horrid form to trace,
That follow'd it close behind,

In fashion of the chief mourner,
What words shall minstrel find?

In his lifted hand, with straining grasp,
A broken knife he press'd,
The other half of the cursed blade

Was that in the corse's breast.
And in his blasted, horrid face,
Full strongly mark'd, I ween,
The features of the aged corse
In life's full prime were seen.
gnash thy teeth and tear thy hair,
And roll thine eyeballs wild,
nou horrible, accursed son,
With a father's blood defiled!

...

Back from the bier with strong recoil,
Still onward as they go,

Doth he in vain his harrow'd head,

And writhing body throw.

For, closing round, a band of fiends
Full fiercely with him deal,
And force him o'er the bier to bend,

With their fangs of red-hot steel.
Still on they moved, and stopp'd at length,
In the midst of the trembling hall,
When the dismal dirge, from its loudest pitch,
Sunk to a dying fall.

But what of horror next ensued,

No mortal tongue can tell,

For the thrill'd life paused in Malcom's heir,
In a death-like trance he fell.

The morning rose with cheerful light,
On the country far and near,
But neither in country, tower, nor town,
Could they find Sir Malcom's heir.

They sought him east, they sought him west,
O'er hill and vale they ran,

And met him at last on the blasted heath,
A crazed and wretched man.

He will to no one utter his tale,

But the priest of St. Cuthbert's cell,

And aye, when the midnight warning sounds, He hastens his beads to tell.

THE ELDEN TREE.

A FEAST was spread in the baron's hall,
And loud was the merry sound,
As minstrels play'd at lady's call,
And the cup went sparkling round.
For gentle dames sat there, I trow,

By men of mickle might,
And many a chief with dark-red brow,
And many a burly knight.

Each had fought in war's grim ranks,
And some on the surgy sea,
And some on Jordan's sacred banks,
For the cause of Christentie.

But who thinks now of blood or strife,
Or Moorish or Paynim foe?
Their eyes beam bright with social life,
And their hearts with kindness glow.
"Gramercie, chieftain, on thy tale!
It smacks of thy merry mood."—
"Ay, monks are sly, and women frail,
Since rock and mountain stood."

"Fy, fy! sir knight, thy tongue is keen,
"Tis sharper than thy steel."—
"So, gentle lady, are thine eyen,

As we poor lovers feel.

"Come, pledge me well, my lady gay,
Come, pledge me, noble frere ;
Each cheerful mate on such a day,
Is friend or mistress dear."

And louder still comes jeer and boast,
As the flagons faster pour,
Till song, and tale, and laugh are lost
In a wildly mingled roar.

Ay, certes, 'tis an hour of glee,

For the baron himself doth smile, And nods his head right cheerily, And quaffs his cup the while. What recks he now of midnight fear, Or the night wind's dismal moan? As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree, Which he thinketh so oft upon ?

Long years have past since a deed was done, By its doer only seen,

And there lives not a man beneath the sun, Who wotteth that deed hath been.

So gay was he, so gay were all,

They mark'd not the growing gloom;
Nor wist they how the darkening hall
Lower'd like the close of doom.

Dull grew the goblet's sheen, and grim
The features of every guest,
And colourless banners aloft hung dim,
Like the clouds of the drizzly west.
Hath time pass'd then so swift of pace?
Is this the twilight gray?

A flash of light pass'd through the place,
Like the glaring noon of day.

Fierce glanced the momentary blaze
O'er all the gallant train,

And each visage pale, with dazzled gaze,
Was seen and lost again.

And the thunder's rolling peal, from far,
Then on and onward drew,

And varied its sound like the broil of war,
And loud and louder grew.

Still glares the lightning blue and pale,
And roars th' astounding din;

And rattle the windows with bickering hail,
And the rafters ring within.

And cowering hounds the board beneath
Are howling with piteous moan,
While lords and dames sit still as death,
And words are utter'd none.

At length in the waning tempest's fall,
As light from the welkin broke,
A frighten'd man rush'd through the hall,
And words to the baron spoke.

"The thunder hath stricken your tree so fair,
Its roots on green-sward lie."-
"What tree?"-"The Elden planted there
Some thirty years gone by."

Then from the board, each guest amazed,

Sprang up, and curiously Upon his sudden misery gazed,

And wonder'd what might be.

Out spoke the ancient seneschal,
"I pray ye stand apart,
Both gentle dames and nobles all,
This grief is at his heart.

"Go, call St. Cuthbert's monk with speed,
And let him be quickly shriven,
And fetch ye a leech for his body's need,
To dight him for earth or heaven."

"No, fetch me a priest," the baron said,

In a voice that seem'd utter'd with pain; And he shudder'd and shrunk, as he faintly bade His noble guests remain.

"Heaven's eye each secret deed doth scan,

Heaven's justice all should fear: What I confess to the holy man,

Both heaven and you shall hear."

And soon St. Cuthbert's monk stood by
With visage sad, but sweet,

And cast on the baron a piteous eye,

And the baron knelt low at his feet.

"O, father! I have done a deed
Which God alone did know;

A brother's blood these hands have shed,
With many a fiend-like blow:

"For fiends lent strength like a powerful charm, And my youthful breast impell'd,

And I laugh'd to see beneath my arm
The sickly stripling quell'd.

"A mattock from its pit I took,

Dug deep for the Elden Tree,

And I tempted the youth therein to look
Some curious sight to see.

"The woodmen to their meal were gone,
And ere they return'd again,

I had planted that tree with my strength alone,
O'er the body of the slain.

"Ah! gladly smiled my father then,
And seldom he smiled on me,

When he heard that my skill, like the skill of men,
Had planted the Elden Tree.

"But where was his eldest son so dear,
Who nearest his heart had been?
They sought him far, they sought him near,
But the boy no more was seen.
"And thus his life and lands he lost,

And his father's love beside :
The thought that ever rankled most
In this heart of secret pride.
"Ah! could the partial parent wot
The cruel pang he gives,
To the child neglected and forgot,

Who under his cold eye lives!
"His elder rights did my envy move,
These lands and their princely hall;
But it was our father's partial love,
I envied him most of all.

"Now thirty years have o'er me pass'd,

And, to the eye of man,

My lot was with the happy cast,
My heart it could not scan.

"O! I have heard in the dead of night,
My murder'd brother's groan,
And shudder'd, as the pale moonlight
On the mangled body shone.

"My very miners, pent in gloom,

Whose toil my coffers stored,

And cursed belike their cheerless doom,
Were happier than their lord.

"O, holy man! my tale is told

With pain, with tears, with shame; May penance hard, may alms of gold, Some ghostly favour claim?

"The knotted scourge shall drink my blood, The earth my bed shall be,

And bitter tears my daily food,

To earn Heaven's grace for me."
Now, where that rueful deed was done,
Endow'd with rights and lands,
Its sharp spires brightening in the sun,
A stately abbey stands.

And the meek'st monk, whose life is there
Still spent on bended knee,

Is he who built that abbey fair,
And planted the Elden Tree.

THE GHOST OF FADON.

ON Gask's deserted ancient hall
Was twilight closing fast,
And, in its dismal shadows, all
Seem'd lofty, void, and vast.

All sounds of life, now reft and bare,

From its walls had pass'd away,

But the stir of small birds shelter'd there, Dull owl, or clattering jay.

Loop-hole and window, dimly seen,

With faint light passing through, Grew dimmer still, and the dreary scene Was fading from the view:

When the trampling sound of banded men,
Came from the court without;
Words of debate and call, and then
A loud and angry shout.

But mingled echoes from within

A mimic mockery made,

And the bursting door, with furious din,

On jarring hinges bray'd.

An eager band, press'd rear on van,
Rush'd in with clamorous sound,

And their chief, the goodliest, bravest man
That e'er trode Scotish ground.

Then spoke forthwith that leader bold, "We war with wayward fate:

These walls are bare, the hearth is cold, And all is desolate.

"With fast unbroke and thirst unslaked,
Must we on the hard ground sleep?
Or, like ghosts from vaulted charnel waked,
Our cheerless vigil keep?"

"Hard hap this day in bloody field,

Ye bravely have sustain'd,
And for your pains this dismal bield,
And empty board have gain'd.
"Hie, Malcom, to that varlet's steed,

And search if yet remain

Some homely store, but good at need,
Spent nature to sustain.

"Cheer up, my friends! still heart in hand, Though few and spent we be,

We are the pith of our native land,

And we shall still be free.

"Cheer up! though scant and coarse our meal, In this our sad retreat,

We'll fill our horn to Scotland's weal,

And that will make it sweet."

Then all, full cheerly, as they could,

Their willing service lent,

Some broke the boughs, some heap'd the wood, Some struck the sparkling flint.

And a fire they kindled speedily,

Where the hall's last fire had been,
And pavement, walls, and rafters high,
In the rising blaze were seen.

Red gleam on each tall buttress pour'd
The lengthen'd hall along,

And tall and black behind them lower'd
Their shadows deep and strong.
The ceiling, ribb'd with massy oak,
From bickering flames below,
As light and shadow o'er it broke,
Seem'd wavering to and fro.

Their scanty meal was on the ground,

Spread by the friendly light,

And they made the brown horn circle round, As cheerly as they might.

Some talk of horses, weapons, mail,

Some of their late defeat,

By treachery caused, and many a tale
Of Southron spy's retreat.

"Ay, well," says one," my sinking heart
Did some disaster bode,
When faithless Fadon's wily art
Beguiled us from the road."

"But well repaid by Providence
Are such false deeds we see ;
He's had his rightful recompense,

And cursed let him be."

"O! curse him not! I needs must rue That stroke so rashly given:

If he to us were false or true,

Is known to righteous Heaven."
So spoke their chief, then silent all
Remain'd in sombre mood,
Till they heard a bugle's larum call
Sound distant through the wood.