That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.

Then lords whispered ladies, as well you may think,

And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and wink:

And the Prince, who in anger and shame had looked down,

Turned at length to his daughter, and spoke with a frown:

'Now since thou hast published thy folly and guilt,

E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt;

Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent, When you vent.'

wander as exiles from fair Bene

I've worn,

And I claim of the Princess to don it in

turn,

wine:

And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame,

it the more,

and shame;

A fever fit, and then a chill; And then an end of human ill: For thou art dead.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR

These verses, written in 1828, were published in The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. They accompanied an engraving from a painting by Cooper, suggested by the incident.

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Careered along the lea;

The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound;
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engrossed their joys and woes.
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose
By fountain or by stream;

And oft when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.

The noble hound - he dies, he dies; Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes; Stiff on the bloody heath he lies

Without a groan or quiver.
Now day may break and bugle sound,
And whoop and hollow ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps forever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death - but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder mixed with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favorite bending low
In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay
In unreproachful accents say,
The hand that took life
my away,
Dear master, was it thine?

'And if it be, the shaft be blessed Which sure some erring aim addressed, Since in your service prized, caressed,

I in your service die; And you may have a fleeter hound To match the dun-deer's merry bound, But by your couch will ne'er be found So true a guard as I.'

And to his last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance, for when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud
And fell amid the fray,

E'en with his dying voice he cried,
'Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been spied
I had not died to-day !'

Remembrance of the erring bow
Long since had joined the tides which
flow,

Conveying human bliss and woe
Down dark oblivion's river;

But Art can Time's stern doom arrest
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast,
And, in her Cooper's colors drest,
The scene shall live forever.

THE SECRET TRIBUNAL From Anne of Geierstein, published in 1829.

From Chapter xx. 'Philipson could perceive that the lights proceeded from many torches, borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their features. They appeared anxiously engaged in measuring off a portion of the apartment; and, while occupied in that employment, they sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes more rude than Philipson could well understand, but which may be imitated thus:'