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1. 0, will you hear a knightly tale
of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer
In wedlock bed he lay;
That was as sweet as May,
Unto a distant shrine,
And leave the land that's mine;
So thou wilt pledge thy fay, That thou for my return wilt wait
Seven twelvemonths and a day.»
Then out and spoke that lady bright,
Sore troubled in her cheer, « Now, tell me true, thou noble knight,
What order takest thou here;
And hold thy lordly sway,
« Of that have thou no care, There's many a valiant gentleman
Of me holds living fair;
My vassals and my state,
V. « As christian-man, I needs must keep
The vow which I have plight; When I am far in foreign land,
Remember thy true knight; And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,
For vain were sorrow now, But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Since God hath beard his vow.»
And sturdily said he,
And take this rede from me;
Seven (welvemonths didst thou say?
He was Marstetten's heir,
« Thou trusty squire to me,
And 10 protect my land,
To lead my vassal band;
Till seven long years are gone,
But fiery, hol, and young,
With too presumptuous tongue, « My noble Jord, cast care away,
And on your journey wend,
Which shall be truly tried,
And with your vassals ride;
So virtuous and so dear,
When thus he heard him speak,
And sorrow left his cheek;
Hoists top-sails and away,
Within an orchard slept,
A boding vision crept ;
« 'T is time, Sir Knight, to wake,
From bed he made him bowne,
With ewer and with gown:
"T was furr'd with miniver,
VII. « Now hear,» he said, « Sir Chamberlain,
True vassal art thou mine, And such the trust that I
repose In that proved worth of tbine, For seven years shalt thou rule my lowers,
And lead my vassal train,
Till I return again.»
Thy steeds another rein,
Thy gallant vassal train ;
So faithful once and fair,
Starts up and tears his beard,
What tidings have I heard !
The less would be my care,
XVII. «O good Saint Thomas, hear,» he pray'd,
« My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs me of my land
Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy
That was so pure of name,
Who heard his pilgrim's prayer,
That it o'erpower'd his care ;
Outstretch'd beside a rill,
As one from spell unbound, And, dizzy with surprise and joy,
Gazed wildly all around; « I know my father's ancient towers,
The mill, the stream I know,
And to the mill he drew,
That none their master knew;
« Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be ?»
« He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the laud
Did a new bridegroom chuse;
Such is the constant word,
He was a worthy lord.
Which wins me living free,
He still was kind to me;
And millers take their toll,
To climb the hill began,
A woe and weary man;
That can compassion take,
His call was sad and slow,
Were heavy all with woe;
« Friend, to thy lady say,
My strength is well nigli doue,
I'll see no morrow's sun;
A pilgrim's bed and dole,
He came his dame before,
Stands at the castle-door;
For harbour and for dole,
« Do up the gate,» she said,
To banquet and to bed;
So that he lists to stay,
Undid the portal broad,
That o'er the threshold strode;
« Though from a mau of sin,
His castle gate within.»
His step was sad and slow,
None seem'd their lord to know; He sat him on a lowly bench,
Oppressd with woe and wrong,
And come was evening hour,
Retire to nuptial bower;
« Hath been both firm and long, No quest to harbour in our halls Till he shall chaunt a song.»
As he sat by the bride,
Lay shalm and harp aside;
The caste's rule to hold;
*T was thus the pilgrim sung,
l'elocks her beavy tongue;
At board as rich as thinc,
And I grew silver-haird, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,
She left this brow and beard;
I tread life's latest stage,
This woful lay that hears,
was dimm'd with tears ; She bade her gallant cup-bearer
A golden beaker take,
That dropp'd, amid the wine,
So costly and so fine;
It tells you but the sooth,
He pledged his bridal truth.
XXXVI. Then to the cup-bearer he said,
« Do me one kindly deed, And should
my better days return, Full rich shall be thy meed; Bear back the golden cup again
To yonder bride so gay,
Nor was the boon denied,
And bore it to the bride ;
Sends this, and bids me pray,
She views it close and near,
«The Moringer is here!,
While tears in torrents fell,
And every saintly power,
Before the midnight hour;
That never was there bride
XL. « Yes, here I claim the praise,» she said,
« To constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight
So stedfastly and true;
So that you count aright,
llis falchion there he drew, He kneelid before the Moringer,
And down his weapon threw;
These were the words he said, « Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, And take thy vassal's head.»
And then aloud did say,
Seven iwelvemonths and a day. My daughter now hath fifteen years,
Fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose,
And name lier for my heir,
ller eye wa
XLIII. « The young bridegroom hath youthful bride,
The old bridegroom the old,
So punctually were told;
But blessings on the warder kind
That oped my castle-gate, For had I come at morrow-tide,
I came a day too late.»
OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.
Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train; Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn; Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, goaw the chain ;
0! had they mark'd the avenging call'
Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their raoks bad mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!
Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms ?
Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Nad we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peac might be argued : But where we grapple for ibe land wo live on, The liberty we hold more dear than life, The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, And, with those, swords, that know no end of battleThose men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour, Those minds, that, where ib: day is, claim inberitance, And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their barvest, And, where they march, but measure out more ground To add to RomeIt must not be. - No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour-- that's fair dealing; But in our bands our swords. The hardy Roman, That thinks to grart himself into my stock, Must first begin his kindred under ground, Apd be allied in ashes.
Shall we, too, bend the stubbora head,
In Freedom's temple born, Dress our pale check in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle,
Or brook a victor's scorn ?
No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood, The sun,
that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, 10 fence our Law,
Nor sball their edge be vain.
The following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of genucmen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming frcemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more succes-ful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns.
To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: « Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate.»
If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-color, Or footstep of invader rude, Withi rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,
Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To
conquer, or to die.
To horse! to horse! the standard flies,
The bucles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of Battle's on the breeze, Arouse
ye, one and all !
To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
From high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue.
The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, ea fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, bar pot useless, tas turi that the passive temper with which the Swiss reganda the drugi of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered ia de ser of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progrative inje** * by which tbe Alps, once the sat of the most virtuts usi people upon the Continent, have, at length, les converted . the citadel of a foreign and military despoi. A state degrada half enslaved.
• The Royal Colours.
Combined by honour's sacred tie,
March forward, one and all !
his harp, and composed the sweet melancholy air to which these verses are united, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.
THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE.
Dinas Emlinn, lament, for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die; Air-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon sball rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dasbing wave. Tee Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade; cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, in repelling the invaders; and the following verses That view'd them with raplure, with rapture that sung. are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chep- Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, stow, Loris-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side ; stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and But where is the harp shall give life to their name? Glamorgan : Caerphili, the scene of the supposed bat-And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame? tle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.
And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die? And hammers din and anvil sounds, And armourers, with iron toil,
Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene, Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.
And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades,
Uncouquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Was heard afar the bugle-horn;
Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell !
THE MAID OF TORO.
0, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And weak were the whispers that waved the dark
wood, And sooth they swore- the sun arose,
All as a fair maiden, bewilderd in sorrow, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
« 0, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending; Roll'd down the stream to Severn's ride!
Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliani's cry; And sooth they vow'd--the trampled green Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been:
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!
All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
Till the shout, and the gruan, and the conflict's dread That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
rattle, Their orphans long the art may rue,
And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; No more the stamp of armed steed
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Shall diot Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien. Save of the fairies' emerald ring.
« 0, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
0, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave lleory is lying; Arr-Dafydd y Garreg-wen,'
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.)—
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, There is a tradition that Dafydd y Garreg-wen, a fa
And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with demous Welsh Bard, being on his death-bed, called for
And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, David of the white Rock,
For ever he set to the brave and the fair.