"Sir," the ruffians said to Hubert,

"Deep he lies in Jordan flood."Stricken by this ill assurance,

Pale and trembling Hubert stood:--
"Take your earnings;-Oh! that I
Could have seen my brother die!"
It was a pang that vexed him then,
And oft returned, again, and yet again!

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard;
Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer
Back again to England steered.

To his castle Hubert sped

He has nothing now to dread;

But silent, and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time--

Night or day at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the Proclamation-Horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee --
Months and years went smilingly;

With plenty was his table spread,

And bright the lady is, who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;

And, as good men do, he sate
At his board, by these surrounded,
Flourishing, in fair estate;
And while thus in open day

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was uttered from the Horn,

Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn.

"T is the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right;—
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains,
Hear the challenge with delight!
"Hubert! though the blast be blown,
He is helpless and alone —

Thou hast a dungeon-speak the word!

And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord.'

Speak! - astounded Hubert cannot,

And if power to speak he had,
All are daunted-all the household,
Smitten to the heart, and sad.—
"T is Sir Eustace! -if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long, was he unheard of;
To his brother then he came -
Made confession — asked forgiveness,—

-

Asked it by a brother's name,

And by all the saints in Heaven ;

And of Eustace was forgiven :

Then in a convent went to hide

His melancholy head, and there he died!

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Liv'd with honour on his lands.
Sons he had; saw sons of theirs.—
And through ages, heirs of heirs

A long posterity renown'd,

Sounded the Horn, which they alone could sound.

ELLEN IRWIN ;

Or, The Braes of Kirtle. *

BY W. WORDSWORTH.

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle.
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;
And there they did beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many 'squires,
The Bruce had been selected;

And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth!

For it may be proclaimed with truth,— If Bruce hath loved sincerely,

That Gordon loves us dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face,

And what are Gordon's crosses,

To them who sit by Kirtles' braes,
Upon the verdant mosses?

Alas! that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing.

* A river in the southern part of Scotland.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts,
That through his brain are trav'lling,—
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
He launched a deadly javelin !

Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

And stepping forth to meet the same,
Did with her body cover

The youth, her chosen lover!

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,—

Thus, from the heart of her True-Love,

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain,

And fought with rage incessant,
Against the Moorish Crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,

This wretched knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing:
So coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel church-yard view
The grave of lovely Ellen :

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,

May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn HIC JACET!

THE INCHCAPE BELL.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[1802.]

"By east the Isle of May, twelve miles from all land, in the German seas, lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed everie tide. It is reported in old times, upon the saide rock there was a Bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This Bell or clocke was put and maintained there by the Abbot of Aberbrothok; and being taken down by a sea-pirate, a year thereafter he perished upon the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgement of God."'-"A Brief Description of Scotland, &c. By J. M.

S.

1633."

No stir in the Air, no stir in the Sea;
The Ship was still as she could be;

Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.