Beside, with eyes upon his victim bent,

Full of fierce joy, the stricken Rebel leant
On the priest's ready arm-and from his side
Oozed, drop by drop, the faint yet fatal tide;
But not one trace of suffering came to break
The haughty stillness of the marble cheek;

To wring the muscle or distort the limb:

728

The death he fear'd not, brought no pang for

him;

And, as the priest bent o'er him, low but clear

His broken accents reach'd the father's ear.

"Bless thee, my Norman !-welcome is the blow, Mine eyes have seen my vengeance on my foe! Last of my race, I drew from Kings my breath,

I die a warrior's-not a felon's death!

Whose grasp

is that-off, off! ye slaves, and see

How souls can scorn your fetters and be-free!"

735

XXVIII.

The clouds with day had faded-soft and fair
Lay the still evening in the silver air.

Beside her lattice, where the flowers carest

745

That gentlest breeze-the wanderer of the west,

(While with its sighs wild birds their music

blent,)

Lone on her couch the dying Ellen leant.

XXIX.

Her soul was absent-wandering far away

O'er the bright memories of a happier day,

And aye across her cheek's transparent hue
The blush broke faint yet all unconquer'd through.

745

In that dark eye-if you had gazed more near-
The light shone sad, and trembled through a tear;
And o'er her beauty-for death's hastening dooms-

But gave to softness what it marr'd in bloom

There reign'd that dreamlike and divine repose,
Which Life's most solemn hour alone bestows;

For ere we pierce the vague unfathom'd gloom Which veils the mightiest mystery of our doom, e There seems some prescience of a bright'ning

goal

To cheer the toil and darkness of the soul.

And-like the moment when the sunbeams leave

Their parting glory to the deep'ning eve,

Whate'er is earth's grows mingled with the

sky,

And awes the spirit while it wooes the eye.

There came the soft mute step we vainly curb
For those whom shortly nothing will disturb;
And the fond menial, when she nearer drew,

Turn'd her full eyes to shun the maiden's view, 760

And smooth'd the voice in which the rebel grief

She gave a small slight casket quaintly wrought,

A stranger peasant had that instant brought:
Oh, as that dying hand the token took,

What flush'd the cheek the frame so wildly

shook ?

The spring obey'd the touch--within was lain
Love's earliest gift-a locket-broke in twain :
She saw, nor shrunk-that gift to her return'd
Broke life's last tie-her lover's fate she learn'd: 7:5
She saw, nor shrunk-one look had power to kill;
The worst was wrought-the broken heart was
still!

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET STREET.

MOODS AND TENSES.

BY

ONE OF US.

The heart of man is as a cup

Supplied with mingled sweets and bitters,—
And every drop that bubbles up

Towards the brim, looks dark or glitters,
Just as his thoughts are black or bright.—

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR RICHARD GLYNN,

36, PALL MALL.

1827.