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LORD WILLIAM.

No eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream,
No human car but William's heard
Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive all the vassals own'd

The murderer for their Lord,
And he, as rightful heir, possess'd
The house of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford
Stood in a fair domain,
And Severn's ample waters near
Roll'd through the fertile plain.

And often the way-faring man
Would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road,
To gaze on scenes so fair.

But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn's stream;
In every wind that swept its waves
He heard young Edmund scream.

In vain, at midnight's silent hour,

Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, In every dream the murderer saw Young Edmund's form arise.

In vain by restless conscience driven
Lord William left his home,

Far from the scenes that saw his guilt,
In pilgrimage to roam.

To other climes the pilgrim fled,
But could not fly despair;
He sought his home again, but peace
Was still a stranger there.

Slow were all passing hours, yet swift
The months appear'd to roll;
And now the day return'd that shook
With terror William's soul.

A day that William never felt
Return without dismay,

For well had conscience kalendar'd
Young Edmund's dying day.

A fearful day was that! the rains
Fell fast with tempest-roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast,
In vain he quaff'd the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown
The anguish of his soul;

The tempest, as its sudden swell
In gusty howlings came,

With cold and death-like feelings seem'd
To thrill his shuddering frame.

Reluctant now, as night came on,

His lonely couch he prest; And wearied out, he sunk to sleep,To sleep-but not to rest.

Beside that couch his brother's form, Lord Edmund, seem'd to stand, Such and so pale as when in death

He grasp'd his brother's hand;

Such and so pale his face as when With faint and faultering tongue, To William's care, a dying charge, He left his orphan-son.

"I bade thee with a father's love
My orphan Edmund guard-
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge!
Now take thy due reward."

He started up, each limb convulsed With agonizing fear:

He only heard the storm of night,'Twas music to his ear.

When lo! the voice of loud alarm
His inmost soul appals:

What ho! Lord William, rise in haste!
The water saps thy walls!

He rose in haste, beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear;

It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now,
No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy, for now
A boat approach'd the wall,
And eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

My boat is small, the boatman cried,
Twill bear but one away;
Come in, Lord William, and do ye
In God's protection stay.

Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice,
Even in that hour of woe,

That, save their Lord, there was not one
Who wish'd with him to go.

But William leapt into the boat,
His terror was so sore;

Thou shalt have half my gold, he cried,
Haste-haste to yonder shore.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream;
Sudden Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund's drowning scream.

The boatman paused: Methought I heard A child's distressful cry!

"Twas but the howling wind of night, Lord William made reply.

Haste, haste-ply swift and strong the oar! A soldier with his knapsack on

Haste-haste across the stream! Again Lord William heard a cry Like Edmund's drowning scream.

I heard a child's distressful voice,
The boatman cried again.
Nay hasten on-the night is dark-
And we should search in vain.

O God! Lord William, dost thou know
How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou without pitying hear
A child's expiring cry?

How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the closing stream, To stretch the powerless arms in vain, In vain for help to scream!

The shriek again was heard: it came More deep, more piercing loud; That instant o'er the flood the moon Shone through a broken cloud;

And near them they beheld a child, Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approach'd his resting-place;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,
And show'd how pale his face.

Now reach thine hand! the boatman cried,
Lord William, reach and save!
The child stretch'd forth his little hands
To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd
Was cold and damp and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms
A heavier weight than lead.

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream,

He rose, he shriek'd,—no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream.

THE CROSS-ROADS.

THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike-way;
He sate him down beside a brook,
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.

He leant his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;
And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water's flowing,
For he was hot and dry.

Came travelling o'er the down; The sun was strong and he was tired, And he of the old man enquired: How far to Bristol town?

Half an hour's walk for a young ma By lanes and fields and stiles; But you the foot-path do not know, And if along the road you go

Why then 'tis three good miles.

The soldier took his knapsack off,
For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he teak
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.

Old friend! in faith, the soldier says,
I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest,
And I should like to sit and rest
My back against that post.

In such a sweltering day as this
A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sat,
It would not only spoil our chat
But make me seem uncivil.

The old man laugh'd and moved---I val
It were a great-arm'd chair!
But this may help a man at need:-
And yet it was a cursed deed

That ever brought it there.

There's a poor girl lies buried here, Beneath this very place,

The earth upon her corpse is prest The stake is driven into her breast, And a stone is on her face.

The soldier had but just leant back.
And now he half rose up.
There's sure no harm in dining here,
My friend and yet, to be sincere,
I should not like to sup.

God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath my feet!
The old man cried.-No harm I trow
She ever did herself, though now

She lies where four roads meet.

I have past by about that hour

When men are not most brave; It did not make my courage fail. And I have heard the nightingale Sing sweetly on her grave.

I have past by about that hour When Ghosts their freedom have; But there was here no ghastly sight. And quietly the glow-worm's light Was shining on her grave.

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They have whetted their teeth against the stones,

And now they pick the Bishop's bones, They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

KING CHARLEMAIN.

François Petrarque,fort renommé entre les Poëtes Italiens, discourant en une epistre son voyage de France et de l'Allemagne, nous raconte que passant par la ville d'Aix, il apprit de quelques Prestres une histoire prodigieuse qu'ils tenoient de main en main pour tres véritable. Qui estait que Charles le Grand, apres avoir conquesté plusieurs pays, s'esperdit de telle façon en l'smour d'une simple femme, que mettant tout bonneur et reputation en arriere, il oublia non seulement les affaires de son royaume, mais aussi le soin de sa propre personne, au grand desplaisir de chacun estant seulement ententif a courtiser ceste dame: laquelle par bonheur commença s'aliter d'une grosse maladie, qui lui apporta la mort. Dont les Princes et grands Seigneurs furent fort resjouis, esperans que par ceste mort, Charles reprendroit comme devant et ses esprits et les affaires du royaume en main: tontesfois il se trouva tellement infatué de ceste amour, qu' encores cherissoit-il ce cadavre, l'embrassant, baisant, accolant de la mesme façon que devant, et au lieu de prester l'oreille aux lega tions qui lui survenoient, il l'entretenoit de mille bayes, comme s'il eust esté plein de vie Ce corps commençoit deja non seulement à mal sentir, mais aussi se tournoit en putrefaction, et neantmoins n'y avoit aucun de ses favoris qui luy en osast parler; dont advint que l'Arche vesque Turpin mieux advisé que les autres, pourpensa que telle chose ne pouvoit estre advent sans quelque sorcellerie. Au moyen de quay espiant un jour l'heure que le Roy s'estoit al senté de la chambre, commença de fouiller le corps de toutesparts, finalement trouva dans sa bouche au dessous de sa langue un anneau qu'l lui osta. Ce jour mesme Charlemaigne retearnant sur ses premieres brisées, se trouva fort estonné de voir une carcasse ainsi puante. Par quoy, comme s'il se fust resveillé d'un profond sommeil, commanda que l'on l'ensevelist prompt ment. Ce qui fut fait; mais en contr'eschange de ceste folie, il tourna tous ses pensemens ven l'Archevesque porteur de cest anneau, ne poovant estre de là en avant sans lui, et le suiva en tous les endroits. Quoy voyant ce sage Prelat et craignant que cest anneau ne tombast en mains de quelque autre, le jetta dans un lac prochain de la ville. Depuis lequel temps on dit que e Roy se trouve si espris de l'amour du lien, qu'îl ne desempara la ville d'Aix, ou il batit un P lais, et un Monastere, en l'un desquels il paris le reste de ses jours et en l'autre voulut estre ensevely, ordonnant par son testament que tou les Empereurs de Rome eussent a se faire sacrer premierement en ce lieu. PASQUIER 1611.

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