Firft tell me, father, faid the youth, (Nor blame mine eager tongue)

What town is here? What lands are these? And to what lord belong?

Alas! my fon, the Hermit faid,
Why do I live to say,

The rightful lord of thefe domains
Is banish'd far away?

Ten winters now have fhed their fnows
On this my lowly hall,

Since valiant HOTSPUR (fo the North
Our youthful lord did call)

Against Fourth HENRY BOLINGBROKE
Led up his northern powers,
And ftoutly fighting loft his life

Near proud Salopia's towers.

One fon he left, a lovely boy,
His country's hope and heir;
And oh! to fave him from his foes
It was his grandfire's care.

In Scotland fafe he plac'd the child
Beyond the reach of strife,
Nor long before the brave old Earl
At Bramham loft his life.

And now the PERCY name, fo long
Our northern pride and boast,
Lies hid, alas! beneath a cloud;
Their honors reft and loft.

No chieftain of that noble house
Now leads our youth to arms:
The bordering Scots difpoil our fields,
And ravage all our farms.

Their halls and caftles, once fo fair,
Now moulder in decay;

Proud ftrangers now ufurp their lands,
And bear their wealth away.

Nor far from hence where yon full ftreạm Runs winding down the lea,

Fair WARKWORTH lifts her lofty towers, And overlooks the fea.

Thofe towers, alas! now stand forlorn,
With noisome weeds o'erfpread,
Where feafted lords and courtly dames,
And where the poor were fed.

Meantime far off mid Scottish hills,
The PERCY lives unknown:
On ftranger's bounty he depends,
And may not claim his own.

O might I with thefe aged eyes,
But live to fee him here,

Then fhould my foul depart in blifs !-
He faid, and dropt a tear.

And is the PERCY ftill fo lov'd,
Of all his friends and thee?
Then, bless me, father, faid the youth,
For I thy gueft am HE.

Silent he gaz'd, then turn'd aside
To wipe the tears he shed;
Then lifting up his hands and eyes,
Pour'd bleffings on his head :

Welcome, our dear and much lov'd lord,
Thy country's hope and care:

But who may this young lady be,

That is fo wonderous fair.

H

Now, father, listen to my tale,
And thou shalt know the truth:
And let thy fage advice direct,
My unexperienc'd youth.

In Scotland I've been nobly bred
Beneath the Regent's hand *,
In feats of arms, and every lore
To fit me for command.

With fond impatience long I burn'd
My native land to fee:

At length I won my guardian friend
To yield that boon to me.

Then up and down in hunter's garb
I wander'd as in chace,
Till in the noble NEVILLE's house +
I gain'd a hunter's place.

Sometime with him I liv'd unknown,
Till I'd the hap fo rare,

To please this young and gentle dame,
That baron's daughter fair.

Now, PERCY, faid the blufhing maid,
The truth I muft reveal;

Souls great and generous, like to thine,
Their noble deeds conceal.

*Robert Stuart, Duke of Albany. See the contiBuator of Fordon's Scoti-Chronicon, cap. 18, cap. 23, &c.

+ Ralph Neville, firft Earl of Westmoreland, who chiefly refided at his two Caitles of Brancepeth, and Ruby, both in the Bishoprick of Durham.

It happened on a fummer's day,
Led by the fragrant breeze,
I wander'd forth to take the air.
Among the green-wood trees.

Sudden a band of rugged Scots,
That near in ambush lay,
Mofs-troopers from the border-fide,
There feiz'd me for their prey.

My fhricks had all been fpent in vain, But heaven, that faw my grief, Brought this brave youth within my call, Who flew to my relief.

With nothing but his hunting fpear,
And dagger in his hand,
He fprung like lightning on my foes.
And caus'd them foon to stand.

He fought, till more affiftance came ;
The Scots were overthrown;
Thus freed me, captive, from their bands,
To make me more his own.

O happy day! the youth replied:
Bleft were the wounds 1 bare !
From that fond hour fhe deign'd to smile,
And listen to my prayer.

And when the knew my name and birth,
She vowed to be my bride;

But oh we fear'd, (alas, the while!)
Her princely mother's pride :

H 2

Sitter of haughty BOLINGBROLE *
Our houfe's ancient foe,

To me I thought a banish'd wight,
Could ne'er fuch favour fhew.

Defpairing then to gain confent;
At length to fly with me
I won this lovely timorous maid,
To Scotland bound are we.

This evening, as the night drew on,
Fearing we were purfued,

We turn'd adown the right hand path,
And gain'd this lonely wood.

Then lighting from our weary fteeds,
To fhun the pelting fhower,
We met thy kind conducting hand,
And reach'd this friendly bower.

Now reft ye both, the Hermit faid;
A while your cares foregoe:
Nor, Lady, fcorn my humble bed;
We'll pafs the night below.†

* Joan, countefs of Weftmoreland, mother of the young Lady, was daughter of John of Gaunt, and halffifter of king Henry IV.

t Adjoining to the cliff, which contains the Chapel of the Hermitage, are the remains of a fmall building, in which the Hermit dwelt. This confifted of one lower Apartment, with a little Bed-chamber over it, and is now in ruins: whereas the Chapel, cut in the folid rock, is ftill very intire and perfect.

THE END OF THE FIRST PART.