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It chanced that up the covert lane,

Where Julian waiting stood,
A neighbour knight prick'd on to join

The huntsmen in the wood.

And with him must Lord Julian go,

Tho' with an anger'd mind : Betroth'd not wedded to his bride, In vain he sought, twixt shame and pride,

Excuse to stay behind.

He bit his lip; he wrung his glove,
He look'd around, he look'd above,

But pretext none could find or frame!
Alas! alas! and well-a-day!
It grieves me sore to think, to say,
That names so seldom meet with Love,

Yet Love wants courage without a name !

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees

O'er-branching, made an aisle, Where hermit old might pace and chaunt

As in a minster's pile.

From underneath its leafy screen,

And from the twilight shade,
You pass at once into a green,

and lightsome glade.

And there Lord Julian sate on steed;

Behind him, in a round,

Stood knight and squire, and menial train; Against the leash the greyhounds strain;

The horses paw'd the ground.

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Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round.

“ What! doth not Alice deign To accept your loving convoy, knight? Or doth she fear our woodland sleight,

And joins us on the plain?"

With stifled tones the knight replied,
And look'd askance on either side,

“ Nay, let the hunt proceed -
The lady's message that l bear,
I guess would scantly please your ear,

And less deserves your heed.

“ You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd

I found the middle door ;Two stirrers only met my eyes,

Fair Alice, and one more.

“ I came unlook'd for: and, it seem'd,

In an unwelcome hour;
And found the daughter of Du Clos

Within the lattic'd bower.

“ But hush! the rest may wait. If lost,

No great loss, I divine ;
And idle words will better suit

A fair maid's lips than mine.”

“ God's wrath! speak out, man,” Julian cried,

O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ;And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, The knight his subtle shift pursued.“ Scowl not at me; command my skill, To lure your hawk back, if you will,

But not a woman's heart.

6 "Go! (said she) tell him,-slow is sure;

Fair speed his shafts to-day! I follow here a stronger lure,

And chase a gentler prey.'

“ The game, pardie, was full in sight,
That then did, if I saw aright,

The fair dame's eyes engage;
For turning, as I took my ways,
I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze

Full on her wanton page.”

The last word of the traitor knight

It had but entered Julian's ear,From two o'erarching oaks between, With glistning helm-like cap is seen,

Borne on in giddy cheer,

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ;
Yet with reverted face doth ride,

As answering to a voice,
That seems at once to laugh and chide-
“Not mine, dear mistress,” still he cried,

“ 'Tis this mad filly's choice.”

With sudden bound, beyond the boy,
See! see! that face of hope and joy,

That regal front! those cheeks aglow!
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen,
A quiverd Dian to have been,

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos!

Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood,
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood,

Sprang on the plighted maid !
With fatal aim, and frantic force,
The shaft was hurld!-a lifeless corse,
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse,

Lies bleeding on the glade.


WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?


grave of that good man be?-By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.--
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust ;-
His soul is with the saints, I truste



EARTH! thou mother of numberless children, the

nurse and the mother, Hail! O goddess, thrice hail! blest be thou! and,

blessing, I hymn thee! Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my

voice shall float on your surgesSoar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on

thy pinions.

Travelling the vale with mine eyes-green meadows

and lake with green island, Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream

flowing in brightness, Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded

slope of the mountain, Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom!

[thy tresses, Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through



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