Old Offa, dress'd in Odin's garb,
Assum'd the hoary god;

And Hengist, like the warlike Thor,
Before the horsemen rode.

With dreadful rage the combat burns;
The captains shout amain;
And Elmer's tall victorious spear
Far glances o'er the plain :

To stop its course, young Hengist flew
Like lightning o'er the field;
And soon his eyes the well known cross
On Elmer's vest beheld.

The slighted lover swell'd his breast,
His eyes shot living fire;
And all his martial heat before
To this was wild desire.

On his imagin'd rival's front

With whirlwind speed he prest, And, glancing to the sun, his sword Resounds on Elmer's crest.

The foe gave way; the princely youth
With heedless rage pursued,
Till trembling in his cloven helm
Sir Elmer's javelin stood.

He bow'd his head-slow dropp'd his spear,
The reins slipt through his hand;
And, stain'd with blood, his stately corse
Lay breathless on the strand.

"O, bear me off!" Sir Elmer cried;
"Before my painful sight

The combat swims-yet Hengist's vest I claim as victor's right."

Brave Hengist's fall the Saxons saw,

And all in terror fled :
The bowmen to his castle gates

The brave Sir Elmer led.

"O wash my wounds, my sister dear! O! pull this Saxon dart,

That whizzing from young Hengist's arm Has almost pierc'd my heart.

"Yet in my hall his vest shall hang;
And Britons yet unborn
Shall, with the trophies of to-day,
Their solemn feasts adoru."

All trembling, Mey beheld the vest: "Oh, Merlin!" loud she cried, "Thy words are true! my slaughter'd love Shall have a breathless bride..

"Oh, Elmer-Elmer! boast no more,
That low thy Hengist lies!
Oh, Hengist! cruel was thine arm;
My brother bleeds and dies!"

She spake the roses left her cheeks,
And life's warm spirit fled:
So, nipt by winter's withering blast,
The snow-drop bows the head.

Yet parting life one struggle gave:
She lifts her languid eyes;
"Return, my Hengist! Oh return,
My slaughter'd love!" she cries.

"O! still he lives! he smiles again! With all his grace he moves!

I come-I come-where bow nor spear Shall more disturb our loves!"

She spake-she died.

The Saxon dart

Was drawn from Elmer's side;
And thrice he call'd his sister, Mey;
And thrice he groan'd-then died.

Where in the dale a moss-grown cross O'ershades an aged thorn,

Sir Elmer's and young Hengist's corse Were by the spearmen borne.

And there, all clad in robes of white,
With many a sigh and tear,
The village maids to Hengist's grave
Did Mey's fair body bear!

And there, at dawn and fall of day,
All from the neighbouring groves,
The turtles wail in widow'd notes,

And sing their hapless loves.

GLENGONAR'S WASSAIL.*

A TALE OF ETTRICK FOREST.

G.

GLENGONAR'S Wassail rout was gay,
And wine, and mirth, and music flow'd;
With lustre, brighter than the day,
Each turret-tower and casement glow'd.

Cold drove the rain-November's wind
Sang to the night with dreary din :
A wanderer came, but did not find
A heart or hand to let him in.

The chambering sounds mix'd with the blast,
Till the pale streaks of morning rose,
When, staggering from the rich repast,
Each languid reveller sought repose.

White were their silken couches spread,-
Yet stiller the old stranger lay
Without the gate, on clay-cold bed,

All bare and bleach'd his tresses gray.

Death had been there, and all was past

He'll need no sheltering mansion more;

*This beautiful and romantic ballad was never before published. It will be particularly interesting to those who are acquainted with the wild Highland scenery where the story is laid. The "Gray Mare's Tail," which is the cataract alluded to in the ballad, is the greatest waterfall in the south of Scotland; it forms part of a rivulet issuing from Loch Skene a beautiful sheet of water, situate on the top of a mountain.-Ed.

Grasp'd in his meagre arms lay fast
The cross- -'twas all his pilgrim store.

Yet on Glengonar's festal hall

His eye was fix'd, with glassy stare; But misery's imploring call

No door had ever open'd there.

No pitying friend was o'er him bent,
To breathe the last lamenting wail;
By naked spray his dirge was blent
In cadence with the whistling gale.

Clear, from his horizontal sphere,
The sun beam'd on each chamber wall;
Yet feverish sleep was loath to hear
The merry morn's awakening call.

The bagpipe's clamour warning brought, The bugle sounded three times three: Joy to the drunkard's morning thought; Peace to the dead where'er they be!

Glengonar rose, and saw the light
Shine on his hills and valleys wide;
But started at a nearer sight,

That aye should humble human pride.

He saw the pilgrim's body lye,

Stiff, on the path by gate-way door:

O, death! thy ghastly livery

Thou giv'st alike to prince and boor!

What son of dust hath ever bent

His eye where thou hast set thy seal; Or trac'd a single lineament

Of thy stern face, and did not feel?