THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.
HIGH deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came;
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
Each dint upon his batter'd shield
Was token of a foughten field;
And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
He sung, as fell the twilight hour:

"Joy to the fair!-thy knight behold,
Return'd from yonder land of gold;
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
Save his good arms and battle-steed;
His spurs to dash against a foe,
His lance and sword to lay him low;
Such all the trophies of his toil,
Such-and the hope of Tekla's smile!

"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
Her favour fired to feats of might!
Unnoted shall she not remain
Where meet the bright and noble train;
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell-
'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won
The listed field of Ascalon!

The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope! For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,

Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

Chap. xviii.

SAXON WAR-SONG.

(Sung by Ulrica from the burning castla.)

WHET the bright steel,

Sons of the White Dragon!

Kindle the torch,

Daughter of Hengist!

The steel glimmers not for the carving of the

banquet,

It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;

The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,

It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist !

The black clouds are low over the thane's castle :

The eagle screams-he rides on their bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!

The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.

Let your blades drink blood like wine;

Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,

By the light of the blazing halls!

REBECCA'S HYMN.

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone:

Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And THOU hast left them to their own.

ANNA-MARIE, love, up is the sun, Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,

warm.

And spare neither for pity nor fear,

For vengeance hath but an hour; Strong hate itself shall expire!

I also must perish.

Note. "It will readily occur to the antiquary, that these verses are intended to imitate the antique poetry of the Scalds the minstrels of the old Scandinavians-the race, as the Laureate so happily terms them,

"Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure,
Who smiled in death."

The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their civilization and conversion, was of a different and softer character; but, in the circumstances of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally supposed to return to the wild strains which animated her forefathers during the times of Paganism and untamed ferocity." Chap. xxxii.

Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his

horn,

AWAY! our journey lies through dell and dingle,

Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,

Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs, Chequers the sunbeam in the green sward alley

Up and away!-for lovely paths are these
To tread, when the glad sun is on his throne:
Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's

by nails,

lamp, forest.

That flings its broad branches so far and so wide,

Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.

"Who wakens my nestlings?" the raven he said,

'My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red! For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel."

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
There's a golden gleam on the distant height:
There's a silver shower on the alders dank,
And the drooping willows that wave on the
bank.

I see the Abbey, both turret and tower,
It is all astir for the vesper hour;

The Monks for the chapel are leaving each cell,

But where's Father Philip should toll the bell?

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
Downward we drift through shadow and light;
Under yon rock the eddies sleep,
Calm and silent, dark and deep.

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool, He has lighted his candle of death and of dool:

Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee!

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye te night?

A man of mean or a man of might? Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove,

Or lover who crosses to visit his love?
Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we pass'd,-
"God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the
bridge fast!

All that come to my cove are sunk,
Priest or layman, lover or monk."

FROM "THE MONASTERY."

1820.

TO THE SUB-PRIOR.

GOOD evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you

ride,

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide;

hill,

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still.

Back, back,

The volume black! I have a warrant to carry it back.

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier?

The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

What I am I must not show

What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Something that neither stood nor fell-
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work thee ill
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show-
This is all that thou may'st know.

Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell,
To waken me here by the Fairies' Well.
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk,
More than to seek my haunted walk;
And thou hast loved the lance and the sword,
More than good text and holy word;
And thou hast loved the deer to track,
More than the lines and the letters black;
And thou art a ranger of moss and wood,
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood,

Thy craven fear my truth accused,
Thine idlehood my trust abused;
He that draws to harbour late,

Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn'd,
Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd;
Valour and constancy alone

Can bring thee back the chance that's down.

TO HALBERT.

YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?

He that seeks to deal with us raust know nor fear, nor failing;

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.

Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom our God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

Many a fathom dark and deep

I have laid the book to sleep;