The wading moon, with storm-presaging gleam,
Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam;
The old Oak stooped his arms, then flung them high,
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky-

'Twas then, that, couched amid the brushwood sere,
In Malwood-walk young Mansell watched the deer:
The fattest buck received his deadly shot-

The watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot.
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife,
O'erpowered at length the outlaw drew his knife!
Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell-

The rest his waking agony may tell!

Fragment Second.

Oh say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
For those raptures that still are thine own!

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
Its tendrils in infancy curled,

'Tis the ardours of August mature us the wine
Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's,
Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,
Looks soberly now on the ground,—

Enough, after absence to meet me again,
Thy steps still with ecstacy move;

Enough, that those dear sober glances retain

For me the kind language of love!

[The rest was illegible, the fragment being torn across by a racket stroke.]

2

Fragment Third.

THE VISION OF TRIERMAIN.

Where is the maiden of mortal strain,
That may match with the Baron of Tiermain ?
She must be lovely and constant and kind,
Holy and pure and humble of mind,
Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood,
Courteous and generous and noble of blood-
Lovely as the sun's first ray

When it breaks the clouds of an April day;
Constant and true as the widow'd dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Where never sun-beam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain;

Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,

Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met

In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet.

Such must her form be, her mood and her strain,
That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long and the skirmish hot;
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still,
Harpers must full him to his rest,

With the slow soft tunes he loves the best,
Till sleep sink down upon his breast,

Like the dew on a summer-hill.

III.

It was the dawn of an autumn day;

The sun was struggling with frost-fog grey,

That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Glaramara's distant head,
And dimly gleam'd each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,
While hastily he spoke.

IV.

"Hearken, my minstrels! Which of you all
Touch'd his harp with that dying fall,
So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call
To an expiring saint?

And hearken, my merrymen! Whither or where
Has she gone, that maid with her heav'nly brow

With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,
And her graceful step and her angel air,

And the eagle-plume on her dark-brown hair,
That pass'd from my bower e'en now?”.

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Brettville; he
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy,-
"Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sate since midnight close,
When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,
Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose.

Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,

Although it fell as faint and shy

As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,
When she thinks her lover near.".
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,
He kept guard in the outer-hall,-
"Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low
And light they fell as when earth receives,
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves,

That drop when no winds blow."

VI.

"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,

When that dark castle, tower, and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,
And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke
Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,
Made the warrior's heart-blood chill!

The trustiest thou of all my train,
My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tow'r,
And from the baron of Triermain

Greet well that sage of pow'r.
He is sprung from druid sires,

And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,

He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.
He shall tell me if nether earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,
Fram'd from the rain-bow's varying dyes,
Or fading tints of western skies.
For, by the blessed rood I swear,
If that fair form breathes vital air,
No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride !”—