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But dim is now my grandeur's gleam ;

The mongrel mob grows prouder; And everything is done by steam,

And men are killed by powder :
And now I feel my swift decay,

And give unheeded orders,
And rot in paltry state away,

With Sheriffs and Recorders.


On the casement frame the wind beat high ;
Never a star was in the sky;
All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,
And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed ; Never a single word I said,

Yet did I scare his slumber ;
And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,
And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,
For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and Fays
Were reckoning o'er his fleeting days

And telling out their number.
Was it my Second's ceaseless tone ?
On my Second's hand he laid his own;
The hand that trembled in his clasp
Was crushed by his convulsive grasp.

Sir Everard did not fear my First ;-
He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,

In many a field and flood;
Yet in the darkness of that dread
His tongue was parched and his reason fled,
And he watched, as the lamp burned low and


To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,

Come dabbled o'er with blood.

Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;
He prayed for light and he prayed for day,

Till terror checked his prayer ;
And ever I muttered, clear and well,
“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,
Till, bound by fancy's magic spell,

Sir Everard fainted there.

And oft from that remembered night,
Around the taper's flickering light

The wrinkled beldames told,
Sir Everard had knowledge won
Of many a murder darkly done,
Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,
And ghosts that walk their midnight rounds

In the tower of Kenneth Hold I

The canvas rattled on the mast

As rose the swelling sail,
And gallantly the vessel past

Before the cheering gale ;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,

As the far shore faded now,

And looked upon the lengthening flood

With a pale and pensive brow :“When I shall bear thy silken glove

Where the proudest Moslem fee, My lady love, my lady love,

O waste one thought on me!”

Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell

With none to soothe or save,
And high above his chamber fell

The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,

And bade its tones renew
These hours when every hue was fair

And every hope was true :“If still vour angel footsteps move

Where mine may never be, My lady love, my lady love,

o dream one dream of me!”

Not long the Christian captive pined !

My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne'er was twined

So white a skin to deck :
Queen Folly ne'er was yet content

With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament

Will rarely sigh for more :-
“ My spirit to the Heaven above,

My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,

O weep one tear for me!”

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Row on, row on !—The First may light
My shallop o’er the wave to-night,
But she will hide in a little while
The lustre of her silent smile;
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman's wish, or a woman's will.

Row on, row on !—The Second is high
In my own bright lady's balcony;
And she beside it, pale and mute,
Untold her beads, untouched her lute,
Is wondering why her lover's skiff
So slowly glides to the lonely cliff.

Row on, row on !- When the Whole is fled,
The song will be hushed and the rapture dead,
And I must go in my grief again
To the toils of day and the haunts of men,-
To a future of fear and a present of care,
And Memory's dream of the things that were.

I GRACED Don Pedro's revelry

All drest in fur and feather,
When Loveliness and Chivalry

Were met to feast together;
He flung the slave who moved the lid

A purse of maravedis,-
And this that gallant Spaniard did

For me, and for the Ladies.

He vowed a vow, that noble knight,

Before he went to table,
To make his only sport the fight,

His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged, as he was bid,

Five score of Turks to Cadiz, -
And this that gallant Spaniard did,

For me, and for the Ladies.

To ride through mountains, where my First

A banquet would be reckoned, -
Through deserts where to quench their thirst,

Men vainly turn my Second ;-
To leave the gates of fair Madrid,

To dare the gate of Hades,-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,

For me and for the Ladies.

Printed by WALTER SCOTT, Felling, Newcastle-on-Tyne.

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