She chid him for his wandering life, For disobedience to her sire; And then, as moved by his distress, In words, the soul of tenderness, She bade him thence retire. He went but duly when the moon His steps did he retrace. And still she chid him for his coming; Most fans his conquering flame. None yet had praised fair Ellen Brooke, Alone she read, alone she thought, And now she loathes the light of day, And more than ever loves the night: The gipsy tells of his free life; He thinks not there is in the deed And that he loves her well. Awake, awake! good Vicar Brooke! The presence bright, the steady light, Thy wife, thy morning star, has set: Ant soon the star that cheers the eve, Is doomed thy aged sight to leave, Though sadly lingering yet. A day of stealth, a day of tears, A day of watching and of dread, Was that on which the bands were tied, When Ellen Brooke, a thoughtful bride, Was to the woodlands led. And when she reached the gipsies' camp,Fain would I here conclude the story,Such scenes uncouth distressed her sight; The death of love's created light, The radiant arch, the heavenly bow, With which she the life invested, And trib with whom she link'd her lot, Utterly vanished when the spot She reached, whereon it rested. She saw what love should never see; What truth and honor grieved behold; Regards upon the worthless squandered; A faith that should be fixed that wandered; A heart beloved, grow cold. And thence was her's a troubled mind; A breaking heart, a soul of fears; And thence, in many a place apart, She sought to ease her burthened heart With unrelieving tears. She fled-in utter woe she fled : And but one living wish had she: With wandering and with sorrow worn, Cast down, despairing, faint, forlorn, One wish-her home to see. She reached it-stood beneath the shade, Where fell, but with no fall profound, That sheet of water, broad and white, Which made, amid the quiet night, An ever-murmuring sound. She stood, and there unto her heart Since she forsook that heaven. She felt her pulse more strongly beat, Her blood rush on, then cease to flow, And the world vanished from her sight, And down she sank amid the night, As falls a wreath of snow. There lay she in the moonlight calm, Like some fair statue overthrown; Grief, that has silent stood for years, Imaged too sorrowful for tears, Unweeping in the stone. Could she have wept, she had not died. Send back no thoughts into her youth: Behold her not as there she played; When to her own sweat songs she danced, Or like the butterfly she glanced Out in the sun and shade. Behold her not in after years, Attended by her own fair light, Like morning walking through the skies, As with the glory of her eyes She would dispel the night. For vain it were to cherish grief By dwelling on a mournful theme; The dews are dried, the leaves are shed, The fragrance and the bloom are dead, And all is but a dream. The nightingale has ceased to sing; The cuckoo now is seldom heard: The kine are couched beneath the trees, Hushed are the winds-the very leaves Above the soaring lark. Now come in groups the gipsy tribes, Along the flowery lanes. Stout men are loud in wrangling talk, Where older tongues are gruff and tame : Keen maiden laughter rings aloft, Whilst many an under voice is soft From many a talking dame. There beaver hats are weather-stained,—— This day a glorious day will be To them upon the blossomed heath; Where, tranquil as the brooding dove, Bright blue is all spread out above, And purple all beneath. See Harry Lee pass by the hall; Then by the steward's buildings range; Thence through the hamlet stalking fast; And hear him when securely past Beyond the farthest grange. "How knowing look these wealthy men, "God help them, for their narrow souls: "They talk about their parks and farms, And nicely show the boundary line: There's little truth in what they say He of Napoleon must have read, And placed it on his head. The slouching hat our hero wore, And Harry Lee was now a king, Joy filled his tent to overflowing; The crown wherewith he king was Elated roamed he anywhere, crowned, Wherein a pipe and a crow's feather, Was by a hundred winters browned. Yet he so prized it, he had scorned A golden diadem, made bright With ruby lustre round it thrown, Such favor found it in his own, And in his people's sight. His sceptre was a stout oak sapling, Round which a snake well-carved was wreathed: Cunning and strength that well bespoke, Whilst from his frame, as from an oak, "Deliberate valor breathed." No throne of ivory, pearl, or gold, With diamonds studded, could surpass, And of the emerald grass. His footstool was the solid earth, His court spread out in pomp before The heath arrayed in summer's smiles: His dome, the heavens arched o'er him. And unto him who thus could look On the fresh earth and sun new risen ; Antique and flowing was his dress: And, from his temples bold and bare, His ample growth of hair. Like Cromwell's was his hardy front, Where underneath a flitting grace, A hardness as of stone. Nor what he did was knowing. Bewick alone the scene could show, In groups, or singly here and there: The vagrant dress, the careless grace, Of many a gipsy form and face, The manly and the fair. Old way worn asses, grey, grotesque, But Bewick's burin, Crabbe's true pen, Could never show how quiet fled, And darkness by their fires was chased; And round those fires how beldames strong Danced to the screaming of a song, Like witches on the waste. Never since Robin Hood was king, In merry Sherwood had their been, 'Mid haunts that hallowed seemed to quiet, Such jolly uproar, jovial riot, Amongst the bushes green. They squeezed, and fiddled, strained, and True harmony was put to death; They danced, or capered, which you will: They wrestled; for the Isthmian games, If aught they knew, they nothing cared; They boxed, they fought, such war had charms; And dreadful were their brawny arms, About the farm the farmer raged, And cursed the dog that did not bark, As many a theft was brought to light, When from the plundered roost the night Withdrew its curtain dark. Fish had they from the freshest streams; Wine had they from old cellars, rich; That was not brought by Mab the fairy; From many a farmer's dairy. The dawn had met them open-eyed, Had love and wine not conquered num- Some fell, and made the heath their bed, At break of day they took their way By various tracks throughout the nation, Past park, and farm, and mill, and wood, Laying their hands on all they could, All following their vocation. To pleasant meads of freshest grass, To fields of rich luxuriant clover, Well knew they how their way to win; And nightly turn their asses in, All merry England over. The peasants feared them: not for nought: Of all the wandering tribe. And lucky was the farmer thought Who had the fortune to compound : With safety hedged him round. Yet was not totally forgot, Amongst his tribe he left a name, THE YOUNG PRETENDER.* A TALE. BY MRS. CRAWFORD. So many circumstances govern and control the actions of men to whom the adventitious advantages of birth, fortune, and education hoodwink the motives of those actions that belong, that, even to themselves, they may carry a sounding trumpet to the world; but the simple, unlettered child of nature, without any of the leaven of pride or ambition, that sets the passions in a ferment, goes never seeking to enter the dark labyrinth in straight forward in the path love points out, which selfishness loses sight of all but the golden clue. Donald, proud of the trust reposed in him, and no less happy in the knowledge that the Charlie Stuart, grandson of "King Jamie, o' person he was to oblige was the identical blessed memory," soon got everything arranged for the prince's accommodation in the place of concealment, which a fifty years' servitude at the castle had made him better acquainted with than his lord. Thus far all servants' hall, and there, with the authority was well. Donald's next step was to visit the of an old confidential favorite, informed them, under the rose, as it would seem, that the stranger who came from England brought despatches with him of so important a nature, that the earl sent him back again without allowing him time to rest. "Tis mair than probable, ye ken," added Donald, with a significant nod, "that the Pretender, as they ca' young Charlie, hae gotten footing in EngGeordie ken naething o', rinning a' the counland, whilk the troops joost sent over by King try round on a gowk's hunt, he! he! he! like sae mony daft boys, to put saut on a birdie's tail." Having lulled all suspicion about the visit of the stranger, and plied the servants well with genuine mountain-dew, Donald had the satisfaction of seeing them all depart to their beds, when he hastened to conduct the prince to his concealed dormitory. Left alone with his sister, the earl was silent for some time, pacing backward and forward with the air of one much disturbed. "This has happened most unfortunately," said he at last, striking his forehead. "It has, indeed," answered Lady Jane mildly, “but I hope no evil will arise to you from an action so natural and praiseworthy as saving the life of a fellow-creature." "That is nothing to the purpose, Jane," bound to save all that fly to us, at the risk of said the earl somewhat testily, "we are not our own life, or, what is yet dearer, our good name." "But, as he put himself into your power," said Lady Jane, remonstratively "I could not well give him up to his enemies, you would say," rejoined her brother. * Concluded from p. 272. |