For when the snow-storm beat our roof,
She bore a boy, Sir Bann,

Who grew as fair your likeness' proof
As child e'er grew like man.

'Twas smiling on that babe one morn
While heath bloomed on the moor,
Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn
As he hunted past our door.

She shunned him, but he raved of Jane,
And roused his mother's pride:
Who came to us in high disdain,-
'And where's the face,' she cried,

'Has witched my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?

Dost love thy husband? Know, my son Has sworn to seek his life.'

Her anger sore dismayed us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want.

So I told her, weeping bitterly,

What all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een.

And she housed us both, when, cheerfully,

My child to her had sworn,

That even if made a widow, she

Would never wed Kinghorn."

Here paused the nurse, and then began
The abbot, standing by:-
"Three months ago a wounded man
To our abbey came to die.

He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clenched,

Spoke of the worm that never dies,
And the fire that is not quenched.

At last, by what this scroll attests,
He left atonement brief,

For years of anguish to the breasts
His guilt had wrung with grief.

'There lived,' he said, a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof;

I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

I feigned repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,

But let her husband's miniature
Be copied from her neck,

As means to search him; my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Naught but his picture's counterfeit,
And Jane's reported scorn.

The treachery took: she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied

Whate'er I wished; she clasped her child,

And swooned, and all but died.

I felt her tears for years and years
Quench not my flame, but stir;
The very hate I bore her mate
Increased my love for her.

Fame told us of his glory, while
Joy flushed the face of Jane;

And, while she blessed his name, her smile
Struck fire into my brain.

No fears could damp; I reached the camp,
Sought out its champion;

And if my broad-sword failed at last,
'T was long and well laid on.

This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

He died not till you went to fight
The Turks, at Warradein;

But I see my tale has changed you pale.".

The abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who poured

It out, and knelt and smiled;

The stunned knight saw himself restored

To childhood in his child;

And stooped and caught him to his breast,
Laughed loud and wept anon,

And, with a shower of kisses, pressed
The darling little one.

"And where went Jane ?"

"To a nunnery, Sir,—

Look not again so pale,

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."

"And has she ta'en the veil ?"

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar
Rash words."They sat all three,

And the boy played with the knight's broad star,
As he kept him on his knee.

"Think, ere you ask her dwelling-place,"

The abbot further said;

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade.

Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."-
"Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where 's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn's adjacent room,

And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob

Of the knight embracing Jane.

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND.

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on field and flood: —

By the foes you've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted, Navies conquered — kingdoms won.

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail, in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!

Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours,Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!