now
The sad Enthusiast would strike his brow,
And cry aloud, with deep and bitter groans,
"How have I sinned, that both my little ones—
The children of my heart—should be struck down!
O Thou Almighty Spirit! if thy frown
Is now upon me, turn aside thy wrath,
And guide me—lead, oh lead me in the path
Of heaven's own truth; direct my faith aright,
Teach me to hope, and lend thy Spirit's light."

XIV.

Thus, long his soul as a frail bark was tossed
On a dark sea, with helm and compass lost,
Till she who ever to his breast had been
The star of hope and love, with brow serene,
As if no sorrow e'er her heart had riven,
But her eye calmly looked through time to heaven—
Soothed his sad spirit, and with anxious care
Used much of reason, and yet more of prayer;
Till bright'ning hope dawned gently o'er his soul,
Like the sun's shadow at the freezing pole,
Seen by the shiv'ring Greenlander, or e'er
Its front of fire does his horizon cheer;
While brighter still that ardent hope became,
Till in his bosom glowed the living flame
Of Christian faith—faith in the Saviour sent,
By the eternal God, to preach, "Repent
And be ye saved."—-Then peace, as sunshine, fell
On the Enthusiast's bosom, and the swell
Of anguish died away, as o'er the deep
The waves lie down when winds and tempests sleep.

XV.

Time glided on, and wedded joys still grew
As beauty deepens on an autumn view
With tinges rich as heaven! and, though less green,
More holy far than summer's fairest scene.
Now o'er the happy pair, at life's calm eve
Age like a shadow fell, and seemed to weave
So fair a twilight round each silvered brow,
That they ne'er felt so young, so blest as now;
Though threescore winters o'er their path had fled,
And left the snow of years on either head.
For age drew round them, but they knew it not—
The once bright face of youth was half forgot;
But still the young, the unchanged heart was there,
And still his aged Helen seemed as fair
As when, with throbbing heart and giddy bliss,
He from her lips first snatched the virgin kiss!

XVI.

Last scene of all: An old and widowed man,
Whose years had reached life's farthest, frailest span,
And o'er whose head, as every moment flew,
Eternity its dark'ning twilight threw,
Lay in his silent chamber, dull and lone,
Watching the midnight stars, as one by one
They as slow, voiceless spirits glided past
The window of his solitude, and cast
Their pale light on his brow; and thus he lay
Till the bright star that ushers in the day
Rose on his sight, and, with its cheering beams,
Lit in his bosom youth's delicious dreams;
Yea, while he gazed upon that golden star,
Rolling in light, like love's celestial car,
He deemed he in its radiance read the while
His children's voices and his Helen's smile;
And as it passed, and from his sight withdrew,
His longing spirit followed it! and flew
To heaven and deathless bliss—from earth and care—
To meet his Helen and his children there!

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE.

I.

Of a maiden's beauty the world-wide praise
Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days,
When her envied name was a nation's fame,
And raised in knights' breasts an emulous flame,
Which lighted to honour and grand emprise—
Things always so lovely in ladies' eyes;
For a true woman's favour will ever be won
By that which is noble and nobly done.

Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn
With a note of love and a blast of scorn;
Of love to the Ladye Etheline
Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein,
Whose beauty had passed o'er Christian land
As a philter to nerve the resolute hand
Of many a knight in the goodly throng
Who gathered round Godfrey of Buglion,
With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold,
And thousands of others as brave and bold;
And a blast of scorn to every knight
Who would dare to challenge his envied right.
The porte yields quick to the warder's hand
By the Yerl's consent, by the Yerl's command;
And the ladye, who knew the winding sound,
As the tra-la-la rang all around,
Has opened her casement up on high,
And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy.

II.

"I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee,
As here I crave upon bended knee,
That thou wilt grant unto my prayer
A single lock of thy golden hair,
To wear in a lockheart over my breast,
And carry with me to the balmy East—
The land where the Saviour met his death,
The sacred Salem of saving faith,
Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord,
Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde.
Grant me the meed for which I burn,
And, by our Ladye, on my return,
We will wedded be in the sacred bands
Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands."

The ladye has, with a gesture bland,
Taken her scissors into her hand,
And clipt a lock of her auburn hair,
And yielded it to his ardent prayer;
But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes
Hath fallen upon the golden prize.
"Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled—
"This tear was from thine heart beguiled,
And I take it to be an omen of good,
For tears, my love, are purified blood,
That impart a beauty to female eyes,
And vouch for her kindly sympathies."
"Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied—
"An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed;
Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek,
Nor further word could the damoiselle speak.
Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still,
"If tears, my love, are an omen of ill,
The way to deprive them of evil spell
Is to kiss them away, and—all is well!"
And he took in his arms the yielding maid,
And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again,
To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train.
Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell,
"Fare thee—fare thee—fare thee well;"
But Etheline, as she waved her hand,
Could not those flowing tears command,
And thought the bugle in sounds did say,
"Fare thee—fare thee well for aye."

III.

A year has passed: at Eaglestein
There sat the Ladye Etheline;
Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale,
Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail;
For though through the world's busy crowd
The deeds of the war were sung aloud,
And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled
With Godfrey's among the brave and bold,
No letter had come from her knight so dear,
To belie the spell of the lock and tear.
The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say,
"Alas! for the hour when he went away."
But the womb of old Time is everly full,
And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull.
Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear,
And echoed around both far and near;
It is Sir Ronald from Palestine—
Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline.
"I have come," said he, "through pain and peril,
To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl:
Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan,
Who slew our most gallant capitan!
Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour,
Fell wounded before High Salem's