The Metropolitan Magazine

She chid him for his wandering life, For disobedience to her sire; And then, as moved by his distress, In words, the soul of tenderness, She bade him thence retire.

He went but duly when the moon
Looked down on that delightful place,
He left the camp, the gipsies all,
And to the walks and waterfall

His steps did he retrace.

And still she chid him for his coming;
Still blended pity with her blame:
All unsuspiciou s as the dove,
Unknowing by such arts how love

Most fans his conquering flame.

None yet had praised fair Ellen Brooke,
None fondly gazed upon her face;
As yet Love had not found her out;
From prying eyes well fenced about,
In that secluded place.

Alone she read, alone she thought,
Alone, or by her father's side;
Maiden companion had she none;
And half her life seemed from her gone,
The day her mother died.

And now she loathes the light of day,

And more than ever loves the night:
And many an anxious glance she turns,
To where her father's taper burns,
As though she feared its light.
For very wondrous is the tale

The gipsy tells of his free life;
Of revels in the woodland tent;
That even now does she consent
To be the gipsy's wife.

He thinks not there is in the deed
Ingratitude as black as hell:
What for past goodness should he care?
He only thinks the maid is fair,
And has a noble step and air,

And that he loves her well.

Awake, awake! good Vicar Brooke!
That theme may be a glorious theme:
Peruse the glowing page no more,
For grief is knocking at thy door,
To chase away the dream.

The presence bright, the steady light,

Thy wife, thy morning star, has set: Ant soon the star that cheers the eve, Is doomed thy aged sight to leave, Though sadly lingering yet.

A day of stealth, a day of tears,

A day of watching and of dread, Was that on which the bands were tied, When Ellen Brooke, a thoughtful bride, Was to the woodlands led.

And when she reached the gipsies' camp,Fain would I here conclude the story,Such scenes uncouth distressed her sight;

The death of love's created light,
The dimming of its glory.

The radiant arch, the heavenly bow,

With which she the life invested,

And trib with whom she link'd her lot, Utterly vanished when the spot

She reached, whereon it rested.

She saw what love should never see;

What truth and honor grieved behold; Regards upon the worthless squandered; A faith that should be fixed that wandered; A heart beloved, grow cold.

And thence was her's a troubled mind; A breaking heart, a soul of fears; And thence, in many a place apart, She sought to ease her burthened heart With unrelieving tears.

She fled-in utter woe she fled :

And but one living wish had she: With wandering and with sorrow worn, Cast down, despairing, faint, forlorn,

One wish-her home to see.

She reached it-stood beneath the shade,

Where fell, but with no fall profound, That sheet of water, broad and white, Which made, amid the quiet night,

An ever-murmuring sound.

She stood, and there unto her heart
A sense of all the past was given;
And to her anguished soul it seemed
Ages of sorrow had she dreamed

Since she forsook that heaven.

She felt her pulse more strongly beat,

Her blood rush on, then cease to flow, And the world vanished from her sight, And down she sank amid the night,

As falls a wreath of snow.

There lay she in the moonlight calm,

Like some fair statue overthrown; Grief, that has silent stood for years, Imaged too sorrowful for tears,

Unweeping in the stone.

Could she have wept, she had not died.
Unto her heart the purple flood,
Too powerful for her wasted frame,
In one o'erwhelming torrent came,
And there for ever stood.

Send back no thoughts into her youth:

Behold her not as there she played; When to her own sweat songs she danced, Or like the butterfly she glanced

Out in the sun and shade.

Behold her not in after years,

Attended by her own fair light,

Like morning walking through the skies, As with the glory of her eyes

She would dispel the night.

For vain it were to cherish grief

By dwelling on a mournful theme; The dews are dried, the leaves are shed, The fragrance and the bloom are dead, And all is but a dream.

The nightingale has ceased to sing;

The cuckoo now is seldom heard:
The whetted scythe is ringing now,
And sadness rests on bush and bough,
And on each singing bird.

The kine are couched beneath the trees,
From the broad sultriness of day:
The warmth and silence are profound;
And many a lovely face is browned,
Amongst the tedded hay.

Hushed are the winds-the very leaves
Are tranquil as an anchored bark:
And high the swallow skims, how high!
A level line along the sky,

Above the soaring lark.

Now come in groups the gipsy tribes,
From northern hills, from southern plains:
And many a panniered ass is swinging
The child that to itself is singing

Along the flowery lanes.

Stout men are loud in wrangling talk,

Where older tongues are gruff and tame : Keen maiden laughter rings aloft, Whilst many an under voice is soft

From many a talking dame.

There beaver hats are weather-stained,——
The one black plume is sadly gay!
Their squalid brats are slung behind
In cloaks, that flutter to the wind,
Of scarlet, brown, and grey.

This day a glorious day will be

To them upon the blossomed heath; Where, tranquil as the brooding dove, Bright blue is all spread out above, And purple all beneath.

See Harry Lee pass by the hall;

Then by the steward's buildings range; Thence through the hamlet stalking fast; And hear him when securely past

Beyond the farthest grange.

"How knowing look these wealthy men,
Slantly upon me from the door;
Their looks declare that I am stout;
A wandering fool, a vagrant lout,
Deserving to be poor.

"God help them, for their narrow souls:
For mean and narrow souls have they!
Want I a buck? there is a park-
Want I a time? there is the dark-
And well I know the way.

"They talk about their parks and farms, And nicely show the boundary line: There's little truth in what they say

He of Napoleon must have read,
Who, scorning priests, took up the crown,
Upright, instead of kneeling down,

And placed it on his head.

The slouching hat our hero wore,

And Harry Lee was now a king,

Joy filled his tent to overflowing;
Hope had he none, nor any fear;
Won had he all be counted dear;

The crown wherewith he king was Elated roamed he anywhere,

crowned,

Wherein a pipe and a crow's feather,
Were stuck in fellowship together,

Was by a hundred winters browned.

Yet he so prized it, he had scorned

A golden diadem, made bright With ruby lustre round it thrown, Such favor found it in his own,

And in his people's sight.

His sceptre was a stout oak sapling,

Round which a snake well-carved was wreathed:

Cunning and strength that well bespoke, Whilst from his frame, as from an oak, "Deliberate valor breathed."

No throne of ivory, pearl, or gold,

With diamonds studded, could surpass,
Though fashioned for an eastern king,
Our hero's throne of purple ling,

And of the emerald grass.

His footstool was the solid earth,

His court spread out in pomp before
him,

The heath arrayed in summer's smiles:
His empire broad, the British Isles:

His dome, the heavens arched o'er him.

And unto him who thus could look

On the fresh earth and sun new risen ;
Who breathed the free and odorous air,
Grand robes were wearisome to wear,
And palace walls a prison.

Antique and flowing was his dress:

And, from his temples bold and bare,
Back fell in many a dusky tress,
As liberal as the wilderness,

His ample growth of hair.

Like Cromwell's was his hardy front,
Where thought, but feeling none, was
shown

Where underneath a flitting grace,
Was firmly built up in his face,

A hardness as of stone.

Nor what he did was knowing.

Bewick alone the scene could show,

In groups, or singly here and there: The vagrant dress, the careless grace, Of many a gipsy form and face,

The manly and the fair.

Old way worn asses, grey, grotesque,
Coarse bull-dogs, elder children wild,
The poverty without distress,
And disregarded wretchedness,
In mother and in child.

But Bewick's burin, Crabbe's true pen,
Could never give to sketch or book,
The revel, racket, romp, and rout,
And jousts, with each concluding shout,
In which their king partook;

Could never show how quiet fled,

And darkness by their fires was chased; And round those fires how beldames strong Danced to the screaming of a song,

Like witches on the waste.

Never since Robin Hood was king,

In merry Sherwood had their been, 'Mid haunts that hallowed seemed to quiet, Such jolly uproar, jovial riot,

Amongst the bushes green.

They squeezed, and fiddled, strained, and
blew:

True harmony was put to death;
The dissonance more drunken grew,
The fiddle-strings were scraped in two,
And bagpipes out of breath.

They danced, or capered, which you will:
Their action nothing could excel:
To thread the maze, retreat, advance,
They knew, if not the Pyrrhyc dance,
It pleased them just as well.

They wrestled; for the Isthmian games,

If aught they knew, they nothing cared; They boxed, they fought, such war had charms;

And dreadful were their brawny arms,
When for the battle bared.

About the farm the farmer raged,

And cursed the dog that did not bark, As many a theft was brought to light, When from the plundered roost the night Withdrew its curtain dark.

Fish had they from the freshest streams;
The goodliest pheasant from his perch;
Where'er above, beneath, around,
Aught worth the seeking might be found,
They had not shunned the search.

Wine had they from old cellars, rich;

That was not brought by Mab the fairy;
Nor witch upon her broomstick fleet:
To which was added many a treat

From many a farmer's dairy.

The dawn had met them open-eyed,

Had love and wine not conquered num-
bers:

Some fell, and made the heath their bed,
With nothing but the stars o'er head,
To sentinel their slumbers.

At break of day they took their way

By various tracks throughout the nation, Past park, and farm, and mill, and wood, Laying their hands on all they could,

All following their vocation.

To pleasant meads of freshest grass,

To fields of rich luxuriant clover, Well knew they how their way to win; And nightly turn their asses in,

All merry England over.

The peasants feared them: not for nought:
Often their king received a bribe,
That fruits and fowls untouched might be ;
Well-known the veriest knave was he

Of all the wandering tribe.

And lucky was the farmer thought

Who had the fortune to compound :
Nabal's good hap did he possess,
When David in the wilderness

With safety hedged him round.
Henceforth what of their king became ?
He had the fate of other kings;
To his last gasp his power he kept,
He reigned his time, then soundly slept
Amongst forgotten things.

Yet was not totally forgot,

Amongst his tribe he left a name,
With stains of deepest dye defaced,
Yet with some traits that would have graced
The greatest in their fame.

THE YOUNG PRETENDER.*

A TALE.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

So many circumstances govern and control the actions of men to whom the adventitious advantages of birth, fortune, and education hoodwink the motives of those actions that belong, that, even to themselves, they may carry a sounding trumpet to the world; but the simple, unlettered child of nature, without any of the leaven of pride or ambition, that sets the passions in a ferment, goes never seeking to enter the dark labyrinth in straight forward in the path love points out, which selfishness loses sight of all but the golden clue.

Donald, proud of the trust reposed in him, and no less happy in the knowledge that the Charlie Stuart, grandson of "King Jamie, o' person he was to oblige was the identical blessed memory," soon got everything arranged for the prince's accommodation in the place of concealment, which a fifty years' servitude at the castle had made him better acquainted with than his lord. Thus far all servants' hall, and there, with the authority was well. Donald's next step was to visit the of an old confidential favorite, informed them, under the rose, as it would seem, that the stranger who came from England brought despatches with him of so important a nature, that the earl sent him back again without allowing him time to rest. "Tis mair than probable, ye ken," added Donald, with a significant nod, "that the Pretender, as they ca' young Charlie, hae gotten footing in EngGeordie ken naething o', rinning a' the counland, whilk the troops joost sent over by King try round on a gowk's hunt, he! he! he! like sae mony daft boys, to put saut on a birdie's tail."

Having lulled all suspicion about the visit of the stranger, and plied the servants well with genuine mountain-dew, Donald had the satisfaction of seeing them all depart to their beds, when he hastened to conduct the prince to his concealed dormitory.

Left alone with his sister, the earl was silent for some time, pacing backward and forward with the air of one much disturbed. "This has happened most unfortunately," said he at last, striking his forehead.

"It has, indeed," answered Lady Jane mildly, “but I hope no evil will arise to you from an action so natural and praiseworthy as saving the life of a fellow-creature."

"That is nothing to the purpose, Jane," bound to save all that fly to us, at the risk of said the earl somewhat testily, "we are not our own life, or, what is yet dearer, our good

name."

"But, as he put himself into your power," said Lady Jane, remonstratively

"I could not well give him up to his enemies, you would say," rejoined her brother.

* Concluded from p. 272.

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The Metropolitan Magazine, Volym 1