Sir Carodac was a warrior brave:

He had fought the Turk at his Saviours grave;— But lip and cheek are blanching both,

When he thinks of the White-armd Ladye's oath.

He heard a shriek, and a withering laugh,
Like the glee of fiends, when the cup they quaff;
And the lightning fires their red forks sent,
And the thunder rode in the firmament.

Thrice he spurred his courser good,
And thrice he signed the blessed rood:-
Knighthood's heart is steeld to fear;
But knighthood's heart is useless here!

Beneath the lightnings flickering glare,
The lists were set, and the tents were there;
Rung out the trump, and pranced the horse,
But each rider there was a ghastly corse.

All seemd as on that fatal day
When Britomart fell in the bloody fray:
Names of honour and rank were there,
And Queen of the lists sat a Ladye fair.

But nought of earthly shape was seen,
Save she alone, that Ladye Queen,
Mid grim and gaunt and ghastly ones,
For all around were skeletons!

And hark! upon the moaning blast,
Warrior forms are careering fast,

With shriek, and with shout, and with wild halloo,

And well those fiendish yells he knew.

The cymbal rung and the scymitar,
And gong and drum of Paynim war;-
He heard the Soldans battle-cry,
And he manned himself right valiantly.

But his gauntlet graspt at a broken brand,
And his spear was withered within his hand,
He would have cried, God for St. George!'
But the accents died in his helmets gorge.

Then slowly rose that Ladye bright,
Sole empress of the ghastly fight,-

Thrice waved her arm, and thrice she spoke,

At the first sound came shapes of fear,
Lion, and gryff, and headless deer;

At the second, volumes of smoke and flame,
And devilries 'twere sin to name.

At the third, yawnd the dark heath wide,
Six long ells from side to side!—
Horse and knight have run their course,
But fathoms deep are knight and horse

Deep are India's caves of jet,-
Sir Carodac's barb is deeper yet;
Deep rolls the sea, but the founderd bark
Is not so deep as that warrior stark.

Knights have come from a far countrie,
Wizards have connd their gramarye,
Priests have journeyed with pyx and prayer,
But few have seen that Ladye fair.

Yet trembling Serfs the tale have told,
Of fearful sights on Naseby Wold;

Sabres gleaming, horses prancing,

And banners of flame to the night air dancing!

Of shadowy shapes in the cold moonlight,
Of turband Turk and of Christian Knight,
And of one who bears the blessed rood,

On a milk-white charger, mottled with blood.

Ever, ever, careers he fast,

When peals a lonely trumpet blast;—
He bears him well with spear in rest,
But he never wins that dark hills breast.

For, warder in hand, sits a Ladye there,
Queen-like, throned in an ebon chair;
And ere the good steed has run its course
In a fathomless gulph sinks man and horse.

Warders have told it on castle wall,-
Minstrels have sung it in lordly hall;
But priest and warrior cross them both,
Or ere they name that Ladye's oath.

Legends there are for midnight hour,
Song and tale for ladye's bower;
This may be one, or it may not be;—
I would not doubt it for earldoms three.

[This ballad was written by Robert £outhey; a name familiar to every lover of ballad lore.' It first appeared, it is believed, in Sharpe's London Magazine,' 1829. The story,' says Mr. Southey, is told by Taylor the Waterpoet, in his Three Weeks, Three Days, and Three Hours' Observations, from London to Hamburgh in Germany; amongst Jews and Gentiles, with Descriptions of Towns and Towers, Castles and Citadels, artificial Gallowses and natural Hangmen; and dedicated for the present to the absent Odcombian Knight Errant, Sir Thomas Coryat.' It is in the volume of his collected works, p. 82 of the third paging. Collein, which is the scene of this story, is more probably Kollen, on the Elbe, in Bohemia, or a town of the same name in Prussia, than Cologne, to which great city the reader will perceive I had good reason for transferring it.]

It

But though pardon cannot here be bought,
may for the other world, he thought;
And so to his comfort, with one consent
The Friars assured their penitent.

Money, they teach him, when rightly given,
Is put out to account with heaven;
For suffrages therefore his plunder went,
Sinfully gotten, but piously spent.

All Saints, whose shrines are in that city,
They tell him, will on him have pity,
Seeing he hath liberally paid,

In this time of need, for their good aid.

In the Three Kings they bid him confide,
Who there in Cologne lie side by side;
And from the Eleven Thousand Virgins eke,
Intercession for him will they bespeak.

And also a sharer he shall be

In the merits of their community;
All which they promise, he need not fear,
Through purgatory will carry him clear.

Though the furnace of Babylon could not compare
With the terrible fire that rages there,

Yet they their part will so zealously do,
He shall only but frizzle as he flies through.

And they will help him to die well,

And he shall be hang'd with book and bell;
And moreover with holy water they
Will sprinkle him, ere they turn away.

For buried Roprecht must not be,
He is to be left on the triple tree;
That they who pass along may spy

Where the famous Robber is hanging on high.

Seen is that gibbet far and wide

From the Rhine and from the Dusseldorff side;
And from all roads which cross the sand,
North, south, and west, in that level land.

It will be a comfortable sight,

To see him there by day and by night;
For Roprecht the Robber many a year

So the Friars assisted, by special grace,
With book and bell to the fatal place;
And he was hang'd on the triple tree,
With as much honour as man could be.

In his suit of irons he was hung,

They sprinkled him then, and their psaim they sung, And turning away when this duty was paid,

They said what a goodly end he had made.

The crowd broke and went their way;

up

All were gone by the close of day;
And Roprecht the Robber was left there
Hanging alone in the moonlight air.

The last who look'd back for a parting sight,
Beheld him there in the clear moonlight;

But the first who look'd when the morning shone,
Saw in dismay that Roprecht was gone.

PART SECOND.

The stir in Cologne is greater to-day
Than all the bustle of yesterday;
Hundreds and thousands went out to see;
The irons and chains, as well as he,

There gone, but the rope was left on the tree.

A wonderful thing! for every one said
He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead;
And on the gallows was seen, from noon
Till ten o'clock in the light of the moon.

Moreover the Hangman was ready to swear
He had done his part with all due care;
And that certainly better hang'd than he
No one ever was, or ever could be.

Neither kith nor kin, to bear him away
And funeral rites in secret pay,

Had he, and none that pains would take,
With risk of the law, for a stranger's sake.

So 'twas thought because he had died so well
He was taken away by miracle.

But would he again alive be found?