"Rouse ye, my friends!" the chieftain said,
"That blast, from friend or foe,
Comes from the west; through forest shade
With wary caution go,

"And bring me tidings. Speed ye well!"
Forth three bold warriors pass'd,
Then from the east with fuller swell
Was heard the bugle blast.

Out pass'd three warriors more; then shrill
The horn blew from the north,
And other eager warriors still,
As banded scouts, went forth.

Till from their chief each war-mate good
Had to the forest gone,

And he, who fear'd not flesh and blood,
Stood by the fire alone.

He stood, wrapp'd in a musing dream,
Nor raised his drooping head,
Till a sudden, alter'd, paly gleam
On all around was spread.
Such dull, diminish'd, sombre sheen
From moon eclipsed, by swain
Belated, or lone herd is seen
O'er-mantling hill and plain.

Then to the fitful fire he turn'd,

Which higher and brighter grew,

Till the flame like a baleful meteor burn'd
Of clear sulphureous blue.

Then wist the chief, some soul unblest,
Of spirit of power was near;
And his eyes adown the hall he cast,
Yet naught did there appear.

But he felt a strange, unearthly breath
Upon the chill air borne,

And he heard at the gate, like a blast of wrath,
The sound of Fadon's horn.

Owls, bats, and swallows, fluttering, out
From hole and crevice flew,
Circling the lofty roof about,

As loud and long it blew.

His noble hound sprang from his lair,
The midnight rouse to greet,
Then, like a timid trembling hare,
Couch'd at his master's feet.

Between his legs his drooping tail,
Like dog of vulgar race,

He hid, and with strange piteous wail
Look'd in his master's face.

The porch seem'd void, but vapour dim
Soon fill'd the lowering room,
Then was he aware of a figure grim,
Approaching through the gloom.
And striding as it onward came,
The vapour wore away,
Till it stood distinctly by the flame,
Like a form in the noon of day.

Well Wallace knew that form, that head,
That throat unbraced and bare,
Mark'd deep with streaming circlet red,
And he uttered a rapid prayer.

But when the spectre raised its arm,

And brandish'd its glittering blade,
That moment broke fear's chilly charm
On noble Wallace laid.

The threaten'd combat was to him
Relief; with weapon bare,
He rush'd upon the warrior grim,
But his sword shore empty air.

Then the spectre smiled with a ghastly grin,
And its warrior-semblance fled,

And its features grew stony, fix'd, and thin,
Like the face of the stiffen'd dead.

The head a further moment crown'd,
The body's stately wreck
Shook hideously, and to the ground
Dropt from the bolter'd neck.

Back shrunk the noble chief aghast,
And longer tarried not,

But quickly to the portal pass'd,

To shun the horrid spot.

But in the portal, stiff and tall,
The apparition stood,

And Wallace turn'd and cross'd the hall,
Where entrance to the wood.

By other door he hoped to snatch,

Whose pent arch darkly lower'd, But there, like sentry on his watch,

The dreadful phantom tower'd.

Then up the ruin'd stairs so steep,
He ran with panting breath,
And from a window-desperate leap!
Sprang to the court beneath.

O'er wall and ditch he quickly got,

Through brake and bushy stream,
When suddenly through darkness shot
A red and lurid gleam.

He look'd behind, and that lurid light
Forth from the castle came;
Within its circuit through the night

Appear'd an elrich flame.

Red glow'd each window, slit, and door,
Like mouths of furnace hot,

And tint of deepest blackness wore

The walls and steepy moat.

But soon it rose with brightening power,
Till bush and ivy green,

And wall-flower, fringing breach and tower,
Distinctly might be seen.

Then a spreading blaze with eddying sweep, Its spiral surges rear'd,

And then aloft on the stately keep,

Fadon's Ghost appear'd.

A burning rafter, blazing bright,
It wielded in its hand;

And its warrior form, of human height,
Dilated grew, and grand.

Coped by a curling tawny cloud,

With tints sulphureous blent,
It rose with burst of thunder loud,
And up the welkin went.

High, high it rose with widening glare,

Sent far o'er land and main, And shut into the lofty air,

And all was dark again.

A spell of horror lapt him round,
Chill'd, motionless, amazed,
His very pulse of life was bound

As on black night he gazed.

Till harness'd warriors' heavy tread,

From echoing dell arose ;

"Thank God!" with utter'd voice, he said,

"For here come living foes."

With kindling soul that brand he drew

Which boldest Southron fears,

But soon the friendly call he knew,

Of his gallant, brave compeers.

With haste each wondrous tale was told,

How still, in vain pursuit,

They follow'd the horn through wood and wold, And Wallace alone was mute.

Day rose; but silent, sad and pale,

Stood the bravest of Scottish race; And each warrior's heart began to quail, When he look'd in his leader's face.

Of smoke, dark spires and chimneys showing,)
'O'er harvest lands with plenty flowing,
What time the roused and busy, meeting
On king's highway, exchange their greeting,
Feels his cheer'd heart with pleasure beat,
As on his way he holds. And great
Delight hath be, who travels late,
What time the moon doth hold her state
In the clear sky, while down and dale
Repose in light so pure and pale !—
While lake, and pool, and stream are seen
Weaving their maze of silvery sheen,—
While cot and mansion, rock and glade,
And tower and street, in light and shade
Strongly contrasted, are, I trow!
Grander than aught of noonday show,
Soothing the pensive mind.

And yet,

When moon is dark, and sun is set,
Not reft of pleasure is the wight,
Who, in snug chaise, at close of night
Begins his journey in the dark,
With crack of whip and ban-dog's bark,
And jarring wheels, and children bawling,
And voice of surly ostler, calling
To postboy, through the mingled din,
Some message to a neighbouring inn,
Which sound confusedly in his ear;
The lonely way's commencing cheer.

With dull November's starless sky
O'er head, his fancy soars not high.

The carriage lamps a white light throw
Along the road, and strangely show
Familiar things which cheat the eyes,
Like friends in motley masker's guise.
"What's that? or dame, or mantled maid,
Or herdboy gather'd in his plaid,
Which leans against yon wall his back?
No; 'tis in sooth a tiny stack
Of turf or peat, or rooty wood,

For cottage fire the winter's food."-
"Ha! yonder shady nook discovers

A gentle pair of rustic lovers.

Out on't a pair of harmless calves,
Through straggling bushes seen by halves."—
"What thing of strange unshapely height
Approaches slowly on the light,

That like a hunchback'd giant seems,
And now is whitening in its beams?
'Tis but a hind, whose burly back
Is bearing home a loaded sack."—
"What's that, like spots of flecker'd snow,
Which on the road's wide margin show?
'Tis linen left to bleach by night."—
"Gramercy on us! see I right?
Some witch is casting cantraips there;
The linen hovers in the air!-
Pooh! soon or late all wonders cease,
We have but scared a flock of geese."-
Thus oft through life we do misdeem
Of things that are not what they seem.
Ah! could we there with as slight scathe
Divest us of our cheated faith!
And then belike, when chiming bells
The near approach of wagon tells,
He wistful looks to see it come,
Its bulk emerging from the gloom,
With dun tarpauling o'er it thrown,
Like a huge mammoth, moving on.
But yet more pleased, through murky air
He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
And, nearer to the spot advancing,
Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
And, nearer still, distinctly traces
The featured disks of happy faces,
Grinning and roaring in their glory,
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
And making murgeons to the flame,
As it were playmate of their game.
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
Such acting for the nonce engage,
A crowded audience every night
Would press to see the jovial sight;
And this, from cost and squeezing free,
November's nightly travellers see.

Through village, lane, or hamlet going,
The light from cottage window showing
Its inmates at their evening fare,
By rousing fire, and earthenware-
And pewter trenches on the shelf,-
Harmless display of worldly pelf!-
Is transient vision to the eye
Of hasty traveller passing by;
Yet much of pleasing import tells,
And cherish'd in the fancy dwells,
Where simple innocence and mirth
Encircle still the cottage hearth.

Across the road a fiery glare

Doth blacksmith's open forge declare,
Where furnace blast, and measured din
Of hammers twain, and all within,-
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
And idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye,
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horseshoes studded o'er,-
An armory of sullied sheen,-

All momently are heard and seen.
Nor does he often fail to meet,
In market town's dark narrow street
(E'en when the night on pitchy wings
The sober hour of bed-time brings,)
Amusement. From the alehouse door,
Having full bravely paid his score,
Issues the tipsy artizan,
With tipsier brother of the can,
And oft to wile him homeward tries
With coaxing words, so wondrous wise!

The dame demure, from visit late,
Her lantern borne before in state

By sloven footboy, paces slow,

With patten'd feet and hooded brow.
Where the seam'd window-board betrays
Interior light, full closely lays
The eavesdropper his curious ear,
Some neighbour's fireside talk to hear;
While, from an upper casement bending,
A household maid, belike, is sending
From jug or ewer a slopy shower,

That makes him homeward fleetly scour.
From lower rooms few gleams are sent,
From blazing hearth, through chink or rent;
But from the loftier chambers peer,
(Where damsels doff their gentle geer,
For rest preparing,) tapers bright,
Which give a momentary sight

Of some fair form with visage glowing,
With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing,
Who, busied, by the mirror stands,
With bending head and upraised hands,
Whose moving shadow strangely falls
With size enlarged on roof and walls.
Ah! lovely are the things, I ween,
By arrowy speed's light glam'rie seen!
Fancy, so touch'd, will long retain
That quickly seen, nor seen again.

But now he spies the flaring door

Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar,
At which the bowing waiter stands
To know th' alighting guest's commands.
A place of bustle, dirt, and din,
Cursing without, scolding within;
Of narrow means and ample boast,
The traveller's stated halting post,
Where trunks are missing or deranged,
And parcels lost and horses changed.

Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;

Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train,

A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burden'd spirits know.

Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then,
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,

The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone, or turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

And when the midnight hour is past,
If through the night his journey last,
When still and lonely is the road,
Nor living creature moves abroad,
Then most of all, like fabled wizard,
Night slily dons her cloak and vizard,

His eyes at every corner greeting,

With some new slight of dexterous cheating,

And cunningly his sight betrays,
E'en with his own lamps' partial rays.
The road, that in fair simple day
Through pasture land or corn-fields lay,
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen
Skirting its weedy margin green,—
With boughs projecting, interlaced
With thorn and brier, distinctly traced
On the deep shadows at their back,
That deeper sink to pitchy black,
Appearing oft to fancy's eye,
Like woven boughs of tapestrie,-

Seems now to wind through tangled wood,

Or forest wild, where Robin Hood,
With all his outlaws, stout and bold,
In olden days his reign might hold,
Where vagrant school-boy fears to roam,
The gipsy's haunt, the woodman's home.
Yea, roofless barn, and ruin'd wall,
As passing lights upon them fall,
When favour'd by surrounding gloom,
The castle's ruin'd state assume.

The steamy vapour that proceeds
From moisten'd hide of weary steeds,
And high on either hand doth rise,
Like clouds, storm-drifted, past him flies;
While liquid mire, by their hoof'd feet
Cast up, adds magic to the cheat,
Glancing presumptuously before him,
Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum.

How many are the subtle ways,
By which sly night the eye betrays,
When in her wild fantastic mood,
By lone and wakeful traveller wooed!
Shall I proceed? O no! for now
Upon the black horizon's brow
Appears a line of tawny light;
Thy reign is ended, witching night!
And soon thy place a wizard elf,
(But only second to thyself
In glam'rie's art) will quickly take,
Spreading o'er meadow, vale, and brake,
Her misty shroud of pearly white:-
A modest, though deceitful wight,

Who in a softer, gentler way,

Will with the wakeful fancy play,

When knolls of woods, their bases losing,
Are islands on a lake reposing,
And streeted town, of high pretence,
As rolls away the vapour dense,
With all its wavy, curling billows,
Is but a row of pollard willows.-
O no! my traveller, still and lone,
A far, fatiguing way hath gone;
His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest,
And folds his arms, and goes to rest.

SIR MAURICE.

A BALLAD.

SIR MAURICE was a wealthy lord,

He lived in the north countrie,

Well would he cope with foeman's sword,
Or the glance of a lady's eye.

Now all his armed vassals wait,
A stanch and burly band,
Before his stately castle's gate,
Bound for the Holy Land.

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file,

Are figured ensigns flying;

Stroked by their keeper's hand the while,
Are harness'd chargers neighing.

And looks of wo, and looks of cheer,
And looks the two between,
On many a warlike face appear,
Where tears have lately been.

For all they love is left behind;

Hope beckons them before:
Their parting sails spread to the wind,
Blown from their native shore.

Then through the crowded portal pass'd

Six goodly knights and tall;
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last,
Was goodliest of them all.

And proudly roved with hasty eye
O'er all the warlike train ;—
"Save ye, brave comrades! prosperously,
Heaven send us o'er the main !

"But see I right? an armed band

From Moorham's lordless hall;
And he who bears the high command,
Its ancient seneschal!

"Return; your stately keep defend;
Defend your lady's bower,

Lest rude and lawless hands should rend

That lone and lovely flower."

"God will defend our lady dear,

And we will cross the sea,

From slavery's chain, his lot severe,
Our noble lord to free."-

"Nay, nay! some wandering minstrel's tongue, Hath framed a story vain;

Thy lord, his liegemen brave among,
Near Acre's wall was slain."-

Nay, good my lord! for had his life
Been lost on battle-ground,
When ceased that fell and fatal strife,
His body had been found.
"No faith to such delusions give;

His mortal term is past.""Not so! not so! he is alive,

And will be found at last!" These latter words right eagerly

From a slender stripling broke,
Who stood the ancient warrior by,
And trembled as he spoke.

Sir Maurice started at the sound,
And all from top to toe

The stripling scann'd, who to the ground
His blushing face bent low.
"Is this thy kinsman, seneschal ?
Thine own or thy sister's son ?

A gentler page, in tent or hall,

Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon.

"To thine own home return, fair youth, To thine own home return;

Give ear to likely, sober truth,

Nor prudent counsel spurn.

"War suits thee not, if boy thou art; And if a sweeter name

Befit thee, do not lightly part

With maiden's honour'd fame."
He turn'd him from his liegemen all,
Who round their chieftain press'd;
His very shadow on the wall

His troubled mind express'd.

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast
He paced to and fro,

His plumy crest now upward cast
In air, now drooping low.

Sometimes like one in frantic mood,
Short words of sound he utter'd,
And sometimes, stopping short, he stood,
As to himself he mutter'd.

"A daughter's love, a maiden's pride!
And may they not agree?
Could man desire a lovelier bride,
A truer friend than she?

"Down, cursed thought! a boy's garb

Betrays not wanton will,
Yet, sharper than an arrow's barb,

That fear might haunt me still."

He mutter'd long, then to the gate,
Return'd and look'd around,
But the seneschal and his stripling mate
Were nowhere to be found.

With outward cheer and inward smart,
In warlike fair array,

Did Maurice with his bands depart,
And shoreward bent his way.

Their stately ship rode near the port,
The warriors to receive;
And there, with blessings kind, but short,
Did friends of friends take leave.

And soon they saw the crowded strand

Wear dimly from their view;

And soon they saw the distant land,

A line of hazy blue.

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze,
In all her gallant pride,
Moved like the mistress of the seas,
That rippled far and wide.
Sometimes with steady course she went,
O'er wave and surge careering;
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent,
Her wings the sea-foam sheering.
Sometimes, with poles and rigging bare,
She scudded before the blast;
But safely by the Syrian shore,

Her anchor dropt at last.

What martial honours Maurice won,
Join'd with the brave and great,
From the fierce, faithless Saracen,
I may not here relate.

With boldest band on bridge or moat,

With champion on the plain,

I' th' breach with clustering foes he fought, Choked up with grisly slain.

Most valiant by the valiant styled,

Their praise his deeds proclaim'd,
And oft his liegemen proudly smiled
To hear their leader named.

But fate will quell the hero's strength,
And dim the loftiest brow;
And this, our noble chief, at length
Was in the dust laid low.

He lay the heaps of dead beneath,

As sunk life's flickering flame,
And thought it was the trace of death,
That o'er his senses came.

And when again day's blessed light

Did on his vision fall,

There stood by his side, a wondrous sight!
The ancient seneschal.

He strove, but could not utter word,
His misty senses fled;
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord
Was bending o'er his bed.

A third time sank he, as if dead,
And then, his eyelids raising,
He saw a chief with turban'd head,
Intently on him gazing.

"The prophet's zealous servant I;
His battles I've fought and won;
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny,

But honour Mary's Son.

"And I have wedded an English dame,
And set her parent free;

And none, who wears an English name,
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me.
"For her dear sake I can endure
All wrong, all hatred smother;
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure,

As though thou wert my brother."

"And thou hast wedded an English dame !" Sir Maurice said no more,

For o'er his heart soft weakness came,

He sigh'd and wept full sore.

And many a dreary day and night

With the Moslem chief stay'd he,
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight,
One glimpse of the fair lady.
Oft gazed he on her lattice high
As he paced the court below,
And turn'd his listening ear to try
If word or accent low

Might haply reach him there; and oft
Traversed the garden green,
Wotting her footsteps small and soft
Might on the turf be seen.

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave
His listening ear, who told,
How he became a wretched slave
Within that Syrian hold;
What time from liegemen parted far,
Upon the battle field,

By stern and adverse fate of war
He was obliged to yield:

And how his daughter did by stealth
So boldly cross the sea

With secret store of gather'd wealth,
To set her father free:

And how into the foeman's hands

She and her people fell;
And how (herself in captive bands)
She sought him in his cell;
And but a captive boy appear'd,

Till grief her sex betray'd,
And the fieice Saracen, so fear'd!
Spoke gently to the maid:

How for her plighted hand sued he,
And solemn promise gave,
Her noble father should be free

With every Christian slave;

(For many there, in bondage kept,
Felt the stern rule of vice ;)
How, long she ponder'd, sorely wept,
Then paid the fearful price.-

A tale which made his bosom thrill,
His faded eyes to weep;

He, waking, thought upon it still,
And saw it in his sleep.

But harness rings, and the trumpet's brav
Again to battle calls;

And Christian powers, in grand array,
Are near those Moslem walls.

Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate!
Sad to be thought upon:

But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate,
And bade his guest be gone.

"Fight thou for faith by thee adored
By thee so well maintain'd!
But never may this trusty sword

With blood of thine be stain'd !"

L