And he spyethe at laste-" Not soe, not soe,
'Tis a smalle graye cloude, Sir Knighte,
That risethe up like a courser's head
On that border of gowden lighte."

"But harke! but harke! and I heare it now'Tis the cominge of Bonnybelle !"

"Not soe, Sir Knighte! from that rockye height 'Twas a clattering stone that felle."

"That slothfulle boy! but I'll thinke no more Of him and his lagging jade to-daye:"

"Righte, righte, Sir Knighte !"-" Nay, more, bye this lighte, Here comethe mye page, and mye gallante graye."

"Howe nowe, little page! ere thou lighteste downe, Speake but one word out hastilye;

Little page, hast thou seen mye Ladye luve?

Hath mye Ladye keepit her faithe with mee?"—

"I've seen thy Ladye luve, Sir Knighte,

And welle hath she keepit her faithe with thee.”"Lighte downe, lighte downe, mye trustye page; A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon bee.

"Tell on, tell; was mye Ladye's cheeke
Pale as the lilye, or rosie red?

Did she putte the ringe on her finger smalle?
And what was the verye firste word she said?"—

"Pale was thy Ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte,

Blent with no streake of the rosie red.

I put the ringe on her finger smalle;

But there is no voice amongste the dead."

There are torches hurrying to and froe

In Raeburne Tower to-nighte;

And the chapelle doth glowe withe lampes alsoe,

As if for a brydalle ryte.

But where is the bryde? and the brydegroome where?
And where is the holye prieste?

And where are the guestes that shoulde bidden bee,
To partake of the marriage feaste?

The bryde from her chamber descendeth nowe,
And the brydegroome her hand hath ta'en;
And the guestes are met, and the holye prieste
Precedeth the marriage traine.

The bryde is the faire Maude Winstanlye,
And death her sterne brydegroome;
And her father follows his onlye childe

To her mother's yawning tombe.

An aged man, and a woefull man,
And a heavye moane makes hee:
"Mye childe! mye childe! myne onlye childe!
Would God I had dyed for thee!"

An aged man, those white hairs telle,
And that bended back and knee;

Yet a stalwart knighte, at Tewkesburye fighte,
Was Sir Archibald Winstanlye.

'Tis a moving thing to see the teares
Wrung out from an aged eye;
Seldom and slowe, lyke the scantye droppes
Of a fountaine that's near a-drye.

'Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires

Bro't downe to the grave with sorrowe;

Youth looks throwe the cloude of the present daye For a gowden gleame to-morrowe.

But the olde white head, and the feeble knees

Berefte of earthlye staye !-

God help thee nowe, olde Winstanlye!

Good Christians for thee praye!

But manye a voice in that buriall traine

Breathes gloomilye aparte,

"Thou had'st not been childlesse now, olde man!

But for thine owne hard harte."

And manye a maide who streweth flowers

Afore the Lady's biere,

Weepes out, "Thou had'st not dyed, sweete Maude! If Alwynne had been heere."

What solemn chaunt ascendeth slowe?
What voices peale the straine?-

The Monks of St Switholm's Abbeye neare,
Have met the funerall traine.

They hold their landes, full manye a roode,
From the Lordes of Raeburne Tower,
And ever when Deathe doth claim his preye
From within that lordlye bowere,

Then come the holye fathers forth

The shrowdedde corse to meete,
And see it laid in hallowede grave,
With requiem sadde and sweete.

And nowe they turn, and leade the waye
To that last home so nigh,

Where all the race of Winstanlyc
In dust and darknesse lye.

And the gilded nails on one looke brighte,

And the velvet of cramoisie ;

She hath scarce lain there a full told yeare,

The last Dame Winstanlye.

"There's roome for thee here, oh daughter deare!" Methinks I heare her saye

"There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye! Come downe, make no delaye."

And from the vaulte, two grimlye armes

Upraisede, demaunde the dead

Hark! hark! 'tis the thunder of trampling steedes;

'Tis the clank of an armed tread!

The agedde knighte, at that strange sighte,
Whose consciousnesse hath fledde;
But signe nor sounde disturbethe him,
Who gazethe on the dead.

And seemethe, as that lovelye face
Doth alle exposed lye,

As if its holye calme o'erspreadde
The frowninge faces bye.

And nowe, beside the virginne corse,
Kneels downe the stranger knighte,
And up his vizorr'd helme he throwes,
But not in open sighte.

For to the pale, colde, clammye face,
His owne he stoopethe lowe,

And kisseth first the bloodlesse cheeke,
And then the marble browe.

Then, to the dead lippes glued, so long
The livinge lippes do staye,

As if in that sad, silente kisse

The soule hadde passed awaye.

But suddenne, from that mortalle trance,
As withe a desp❜rate straine ;

Up, up, he springes! his armoure ringes!
The vizorre's downe againe.

With manye a flowerre, her weeping maides, The Ladye's shrowde have dressed;

And one white rose is in the falde

That veiles her whiterre breaste.

One goldenne ringlette, on her browe,
(Escappede forthe) doth straye;
So, on a wreathe of driftedde snowe,
The wintrye sunbeames playe.

The mailedde hande hathe ta'ene the rose
From offe that breste so fayre;

The faulchion's edge, from that pale head,
Hath shorne the goldenne hayre.

One heavy sighe! the firste and laste,
One deepe and stiflede groane;
A few long strides-a clange of hoofes→→→
And the armedde strangerre's gone!