Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home:

"Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,

And with all its bright spangles!" said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone;

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:

He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye,

And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!

GLENARA.

SCOTT.

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;

And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;

Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;

They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,

To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,

Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,

But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed.

66

'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;

"And empty that shroud and that coflin did seem;

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,

When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen;

When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,

'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,

I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;

On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did

seem;

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to

the ground,

And the desert revealed where his lady was found;

From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;

Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.

CAMPBELL.

FITZ TRAVER'S SONG.

'TWAS All-soul's eve, and Surrey's heart beat high:

He heard the midnight bell with anxious start,

Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh,

When wise Cornelius promised, by his art,

To show to him the ladye of his heart,

Albeit betwixt them roared the ocean grim;

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement, As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. Oh, she walked so high above me,

she appeared to my abasement, In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings!

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their door

ways;

She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she. Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was, For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me.

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace,And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine: Oft the prince has named her beauty, 'twixt the red wine and the chalice:

Oh, and what was I to love her? my Beloved, my Geraldine!

Yet I could not choose but love her,-
I was born to poet uses,
To love all things set above me, all
of good and all of fair:
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley,

we are wont to call the Muses, And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star.

And because I was a poet, and be cause the people praised me, With their critical deduction for the modern writer's fault; I could sit at rich men's tables,though the courtesies that raised me,

Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt.

And they praised me in her presence:"Will your book appear this summer?" Then returning to each other, “Yes, our plans are for the moors;" Then with whisper dropped behind me,-"There he is! the latest

66 Quite low born! self-educated! somewhat gifted though by

nature, And we make a point by asking him,

of being very kind;

You may speak, he does not hear you; and besides, he writes no satire,

All these serpents kept by charmers, leave their natural sting behind."

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them, Till, as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my brow;

When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them,

And a sudden silken stirring touched

my inner nature through.

I looked upward and beheld her! With a calm and regnant spirit,

Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all,

"Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that able to confer it, You will come down, Mr. Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall?"

Here she paused, she had been paler at the first word of her speaking;

But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat as for

shame;

Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly - "I am seeking

More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim.

Nevertheless, you see, I seek it not because I am a woman," (Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so overflowed her mouth,)

"But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth.

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the numerous guests invited,

And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet; And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted

All the air about the windows, with elastic laughters sweet.

For at eve, the open windows flung their light out on the terrace, Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow

sweep: While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress, Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep.

And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing; Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark;