And led each arm to act, each heart to feel
What British valor owes to Britain's weal.
These were his public virtues :-but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name—
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief,
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,
Save in Religion's high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.

Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

"What voice did I hear? 't was my Henry that sigh'd!"

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy, relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn." "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!

No light of the morn shall to Henry return! "Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!" His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded Hussar!

LINES

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY

MR. CHANTREY,

THE BRAVE ROLAND.'

THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland!-
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand
That he had fall'n in fight;
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allemayne!

For the loss of thine own true knight.
But why so rash has she ta'en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale?

For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung-
"T was her own dear warrior's horn!
Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed-shall break
She would have hung upon his neck,

Had he come but yester-even:
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,

Or meet him but in heaven.

Yet Roland the brave-Roland the trueHe could not bid that spot adieu;

It was dear still 'midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighboring air
And to think she blest him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.

There's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun's green isle;
Thence sad and oft look'd be
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,
For herself he might not see.

She died!-He sought the battle-plain!
Her image fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell and wish'd to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.

I The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.

I gazed, and felt upon my lips

Th' unfinish'd accents hang:
One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning's flash
Those tranced moments flew,

Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes,
Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

LINES

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST,
FROM K. M, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.
THIS wax returns not back more fair

Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!-
We are not friends of yesterday;-
But poets' fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool (they say)
By turns impressible and brittle.
Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,

And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock,What utt'rances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock! What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page And feelings of futurity!

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date th' epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet:

Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reach'd its influence most benign— When every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song-mark'd with the crest That erst th' advent'rous Norman' wore Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillain Mor. Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

1 A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung.

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.

No!-but it tells me of a heart,

Allied by friendship's living tie; A prize beyond the herald's artOur soul-sprung consanguinity!

Kath'rine! to many an hour of mine

Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine

The all-in-all of life-Content!

GILDEROY.

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me :
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows' tree!

The bell has toll'd: it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen

You triumph'd o'er my heart?
Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the riband green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore

Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,

The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,

He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,

When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

ADELGITHA.

THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, deliver'd from her danger;

But when he knelt to claim her glove"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love.

"For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me."

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"-
He raised his vizor-At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!

ABSENCE.

"Tis not the loss of love's assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But 't is the too, too long endurance

Of absence, that afflicts my heart.
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,

Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart that breaks with sadness
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? "Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,The pain without the peace of death!

THE RITTER BANN.

THE Ritter Bann from Hungary

Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom,
And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,

In the holy house of prayer.

"T was the Abbot of St. James's monks,
A fresh and fair old man :

His reverend air arrested even
The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame
Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter's color went and came,
And loud he spoke in ire.

"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Name not her name to me;

I wish it blotted from my brain:
Art poor?-take alms, and flee."

"Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,

"This case your ear demands;"

And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed
In both her trembling hands:
"Remember, each his sentence waits;
And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut.

"You wedded undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring;-
In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchmen's pardoning,

"Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to De Grey,

And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrench'd by force away.

"Then wept your Jane upon my neck,

Crying, 'Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'
But word arrived-ah me!

"You were not there; and 't was their threat, By foul means or by fair,

To-morrow morning was to set

The seal on her despair.

"I had a son, a sea-boy, in

A ship at Hartland bay; By his aid, from her cruel kin I bore my bird away.

"To Scotland from the Devon's

Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread.

"She wrote you by my son, but he
From England sent us word
You had gone into some far country,
In grief and gloom he heard.

"For they that wrong'd you, to elude

Your wrath, defamed my child; And you-ay, blush, Sir, as you shouldBelieved, and were beguiled.

"To die but at your feet, she vow'd To roam the world; and we

Would both have sped and begg'd our bread, But so it might not be.

"For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness proof
As child e'er grew like man.

""T was smiling on that babe one morn, While heath bloom'd on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door.

"She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother's pride; Who came to us in high disdain,

'And where's the face,' she cried,

"Has witch'd my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?-
Dost love thy husband? Know, my son
Has sworn to seek his life.'

"Her anger sore dismay'd us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. "So I told her, weeping bitterly,

What all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een.

"And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, My child to her had sworn,

That even if made a widow, she

Would never wed Kinghorn."

Here paused the nurse, and then began
The abbot, standing by:
"Three months ago, a wounded man

To our abbey came to die.

"He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clench'd,
Speak of the worm that never dies,

And the fire that is not quench'd.

"At last by what this scroll attests
He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts
His guilt had wrung with grief.

"There lived,' he said, a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof;

I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

"I feign'd repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature
Be copied from her neck.

"As means to search him, my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,
And Jane's reported scorn.

"I felt her tears for years, and years

Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate

Increased my love for her.

"Fame told us of his glory, while

Joy flush'd the face of Jane;
And while she bless'd his name, her smile
Struck fire unto my brain.

"No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp, Sought out its champion;

And if my broad-sword fail'd at last, "T was long and well laid on.

"This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,
And we shrived the dying man.

"He died not till you went to fight

The Turks at Warradein;

But I see my tale has changed you pale.”-
The abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page, who pour'd
It out, and knelt and smiled:-
The stunn'd knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,
Laugh'd loud and wept anon,

And with a shower of kisses press'd

The darling little one.

"And where went Jane?" To a nunnery, SirLook not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."

46 And has she ta'en the veil ?"

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar

Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

"Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,"

The abbot further said;

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face

More deep than cloister's shade.

"Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."
"Hush, abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid

The inn's adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumber'd hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was

nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 't is thou,
That send'st it from above,

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odors rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND."

MEN of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood:

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.