"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth,

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell, home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first, upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay ;

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile

Beneath this cloister wall:

See, through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, *
And drizzly rain doth fall."

“Oh! stay me not, thou holy friar;

O stay me not, I pray!

No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of

66

Thy own true love appears.

gray,

Here, forced by grief, and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;

And here, amid these lonely walls,

To end my days I thought.

"But haply (for my year

Is not yet past away),†

* Lear, act 3, sc. 4.

of

grace

+ At the end of their first year of noviciate or probation, they were per

Might I still hope to win thy love,

66

No longer would I stay."

Now, farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I 've found thee, lovely youth!
We never more will part."

THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE.

BY- WARRINGTON.

THROUGH Nannau's * Chase, as Howel passed,

A chief esteemed both brave and kind;
Far distant borne, the stag-hound's cry,
Came murmuring on the hollow wind.

Starting, he bent an eager ear -

How should the sounds return again?
His hounds lay wearied from the chase,
And all at home his hunter train.

mitted to renounce the monastic life, and to decline entering into the order in which their trial had been passed. The Gray Friars were the Franciscans.

This ancient domain is situated about three miles to the north of the town of Dolgelly, in Merionethshire.

Then sudden anger flashed his eye,

And deep revenge he vowed to take, On that bold man who dared to force

His red-deer from the forest brake.

Unhappy chief! would nought avail?
No signs impress thy heart with fear-
Thy Lady's dark mysterious dream,
Thy warning from the hoary Seer?

Three ravens gave the note of death,

As through mid air they winged their way, Then o'er his head, in rapid flight,

They croak-they scent their destined prey.

Ill-omened bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wondrous power to know,
While health fills high the throbbing veins,
The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage, alone he passed,
Nor sought his ready vassals' aid:
But, what his fate, lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delay'd.

A peasant marked his angry eye,

And saw him reach the Lake's dark bourne;

He saw him near a Blasted Oak,

But never from that hour return.

Three days pass'd o'er, no tidings came;
Where should the chief his steps delay?
With wild alarm the servants ran,

Yet knew not where to point their way.

His vassals ranged the mountain's height,
The covert close, the wide-spread plain;
But all in vain their eager search,

They ne'er must see their lord again.

Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,

Bore to his home the chief once more; Some saw him on high Moel's* top, Some saw him on the winding shore.

With wonder fraught, the tale went round,
Amazement chained the hearer's tongue;
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,
Yet fondly o'er the story hung.

Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light,

His aged nurse, and steward gray, Would lean to catch the storied sounds, Or mark the flitting spirit stray.

Pale lights on Cadez' † rocks were seen, +

And midnight voices heard to moan; 'T was even said, the Blasted Oak, Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan.

And to this day the peasant still,
With cautious fear, avoids the ground!
In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound.

Ten annual suns had held their course, In summer's smile, or winter's storm;

The lady shed the widowed tear,

As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er the mind illusions play;

Of travel fond, perhaps her lord

To distant lands had steered his way.

* Probably, Moel-FRYN.

+ Cader Idris.

'T was now November's cheerless hour,

Which drenching rains and clouds deface;
Dreary bleak Robell's tract appeared,
And dull and dark each valley's space.

Loud o'er the weir the hoarse flood fell,
And dashed the foamy spray on high;
The west wind bent the forest tops,

And angry frowned the ev'ning sky.

A stranger passed Llanelltid's bourne,
His dark-gray steed with sweat besprent;
Which wearied with the lengthened way,
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent.

The portal reached-the iron bell

Loud sounded round the outward wall; Quick sprung the warder to the gate,

To know what meant the clam'rous call.

“O, lead me to your lady soon,

Say it is my sad lot to tell,

To clear the fate of that brave knight
She long has proved she loved so well."

Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,

The menials look surprise and fear; Still o'er his harp old Mordred hung, And touched the notes for grief's worn ear.

The lady sat amidst her train

A mellowed sorrow marked her look;
Then, asking what his mission meant,
The graceful stranger sighed and spoke :

"O could I spread one ray of hope,
One moment raise thy soul from woe,
Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,
My words, at ease, unfettered flow!