And, rising up in furious haste,
I seiz'd the bloody brand:
A sturdy arm here interpos'd,
And wrench'd it from my hand.

A crowd, that from the castle came,
Had miss'd their lovely ward;
And seizing me, to prison bare,
And deep in dungeon barr'd.

It chanc'd that on that very morn
Their chief was prisoner ta'en;
Lord Percy had us soon exchang'd,
And strove to soothe my pain.

And soon those honour'd dear remains
To England were convey'd ;
And there within their silent tombs,
With holy rites, were laid.

For me, I loath'd my wretched life,
And oft to end it sought;

Till time, and thought, and holy men,
Had better counsels taught.

They rais'd my heart to that pure source
Whence heavenly comfort flows:
They taught me to despise the world,
And calmly bear its woes.

No more the slave of human pride,
Vain hope, and sordid care,
I meekly vow'd to spend my life
In penitence and prayer.

The bold Sir Bertram now no more,
Impetuous, haughty, wild;

But poor and humble Benedict,
Now lowly, patient, mild.

My lands

gave to feed the poor,

And sacred altars raise;

And here, a lonely anchorite,
I came to end my days.

This sweet sequester'd vale I chose, These rocks, and hanging grove; For oft beside this murmuring stream My love was wont to rove.

My noble friend approv'd my choice;
This blest retreat he gave:
And here I carv'd her beauteous form,
And scoop'd this holy cave.

Full fifty winters, all forlorn,

My life I've linger'd here;

And daily o'er this sculptur'd saint
I drop the pensive tear.

And thou, dear brother of my heart!
So faithful and so true;

The sad remembrance of thy fate
Still makes my bosom rue!

Yet not unpitied pass'd my life,
Forsaken or forgot,

The Percy and his noble sons
Would grace my lowly cot.

Oft the great Earl, from toils of state
And cumbrous pomp of power,

Would gladly seek my little cell,
To spend the tranquil hour.

But length of life is length of woe!
I liv'd to mourn his fall:

I liv'd to mourn his godlike son,
Their friends and followers all.

But thou the honours of thy race,
Lov'd youth, shalt now restore;
And raise again the Percy name
More glorious than before.

HE ceas'd; and on the lovely pair
His choicest blessings laid :

While they, with thanks and pitying tears,
His mournful tale repaid.

And now what present course to take

They ask the good old sire; And, guided by his sage advice, To Scotland they retire.

Meantime their suit such favour found

At Raby's stately hall,

Earl Neville and his princely spouse

Now gladly pardon all.

She, suppliant, at her nephew's throne

The royal grace implor'd:

To all the honours of his race

The Percy was restor❜d.

The youthful Earl still more and more

Admir'd his beauteous dame:

Nine noble sons to him she bore,
All worthy of their name.

CUMNOR-HALL.

ANONYMOUS.

THE dews of summer night did fall,
The moon (sweet regent of the sky)
Silver'd the walls of Cumnor-Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now naught was heard beneath the skies,
(The sounds of busy life were still),
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.

"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love,
That thou so oft hast sworn to me;
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immur'd in shameful privity?

"No more thou com'st with lover's speed,
Thy once-beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

"Not so the usage I receiv'd,

When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me griev'd,
No chilling fears did me appal.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

This beautiful Ballad is now rendered still more interesting by the Countess of Leicester being also the heroine of the admirable romance of " Kenilworth," by the Author of Waverley.-Ed.

"If that my beauty is but small,

Among court ladies all despis'd;

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was priz'd?

"And when you to me first made suit,
How fair I was you oft would say !
And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

"Yes, now neglected and despis'd,

The rose is pale-the lily 's deadBut he that once their charms so priz'd, Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, And tender love 's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay

What flow'ret can' endure the storm?

"At court (I'm told) is beauty's throne,
Where every lady 's passing rare;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the bed
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken, when those gaudes are by?

"'Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare.

"But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows;