VII.

How sweet it was in sheltering cave,

In mingled roar, not wave by wave,

To hear, far off, the sullen rave

Of the distant Northern Sea!

What reck they, though the north wind blow,
And thickly falls the drifting snow,
While round the cheerful flagons go,
And on the hearth the wood fires glow,
And ever, in notes as sweet as low,
Sounds Allan's minstrelsy.

"Now why is he so sad of cheer,
And what may ail the minstrel dear,
That he should silent be?"

As though it bore a subject will,
The forest held its murmurs still

On every silent tree;

While Allan, called, assumed his place,
And "O," he said, "thou queen of grace,

How shall I sing to thee!"

IX.

SONG.

(i.)

"Strike thou the harp, the sylphs descending Shall their airy echoes bring,

Each with each the wild notes blending
Of her own peculiar string;

Touch the strings, the tones they borrow
Speak a language all their own-
Thoughts of joy, and thoughts of sorrow,
Thoughts of what shall be to morrow,
Of what for evermore is gone.
(ii.)

"Strike the harp,-the power of anguish
Bends beneath thy soft controul,

All the sterner sorrows languish

In a blended, soothing whole.

Strike the harp,-let brooding madness

Flee before the gentle strain

Wonted all-engrossing sadness

;

Yields the heart to chastened gladness,
But ah!-returns again."

The fairest girl in Barnesdale
Walks in the glad procession, pale ;
And, as they tread the sacred aisle,
So full of tears her down-dropt eyes,
You might have deemed it sacrifice-
Not bridal holiday.

XIX.

The priests are met, the bishop set
All in his place of state :

This day the Knight of Sherwood-dale,
Shall take a youthful mate.

XX.

"Now twice seven suns have risen

From out their ocean prison;

And twice have I proclaimed,

That these two persons do but wait
Upon the threshold of the state

By their Creator framed,

Until the rites he expiate

That Holy Church hath named."

XXI.

"This is the day, if any here

Know why this sacred troth should cease, Let him declare it, drawing near,

Or ever hold his peace."

XXII.

Silence sank down awhile, then rose a voice

That startled some, but made the more rejoice :

"O, impotent of heart and will,

Not now shall ye your sins fulfil;

For not to you this day is given

To mock the sacred rites of Heaven-
I, Robin Hood, say Nay."

XXIII.

Confusion reigned, the Bishop's eye

Grew stern, his voice grew loud and high.

Three blasts of Robin's bugle-horn,

Far off on Sherwood's echoes borne,

And five score men drew nigh.

XXIV.

Suppose ye now the hubbub o'er,
The wedding rites begun once more
By jolly Friar's hands;

While Little John, for very fear

That aught should be irregular,

Seven times hath asked the banns.

XXV.

No more is the flower of Barnesdale sad,

She has gained for ever her minstrel lad.

XXVI.

Now all the joy that Marian made,

As home they came through Sherwood glade,
Me listeth not declare to you,-

Nor how the stocking Allan threw ;
Leave we them there awhile :

And if the scenes that fancy blends,
As to old tales her aid she lends,
An hour may beguile,

Again the theme I may renew-
Again may shew such scenes to you-
Again may tell you in the wood,

A further lai of Robin Hood.

END OF FYTTE YE SECONDE.

THE WIDOW'S SON.

The child is the father of the man.-WORDSWORTH.

FORMERLY, there dwelt in the little village of

, a poor widow, named Wallace, who had an only son, with the exception of whom, she was in this world alone and friendless. His education and his well.. being were the sole objects of her life, and many and bitter had been the privations she had endured for years in hoarding up somewhat of her miserable pittance for that purpose. It may be then easily supposed how dearly she loved her son: but her's, alas! was a mistaken love, for she cared not to repress those seemingly little faults which, cherished by time and indulgence, magnify to vices; and she saw nothing in the idle and wayward child which could affect the future career of the man. As she offered little or no opposition to his will, he was to her generally affectionate and obliging, and these qualities fully redeemed his faults, or blinded her to them, so that she heeded not that he was to others sullen, morose, and obstinate.

"Twould be needless to enumerate in detail each petty act of a wilful and selfish disposition, which was so early displayed in the widow's son; 'twould be needless to trace, step by step, the effects of unbounded indulgence, and to show how the seeds that were sown and had taken

root in infancy, gradually ripened, and arrived at maturity. But time passed and the season came when they were to bring forth the fruits of their own kind, -and abundantly they did so. What wonder was it that Jack, as he was called, grew up self-willed and ungovernable? What wonder was it that he became vicious and depraved?

It was now that the poor widow would wring her hands in bitter agony at the thought of her son's career, and entreat him, with tears in her eyes, to discontinue his idle habits; but her lamentations and entreaties were to no purpose. Not that Jack had become actually hardened, but long habit had rendered him selfish and reckless. His mother's tears would effect a momentary repentance, and extract promises of amendment; but no sooner were the tears wiped away, and the signs of sorrow laid aside, than his vows were all forgotten. Meanwhile what little she had saved-the result of unceasing toil and labour-was now gone; and so utterly lost-so heartlessly thrown away. Nor was that all. It was not long e'er Jack's unfeeling extravagance drove her from her neat and comfortable abode, to take refuge in one of the meanest hovels in the village; and, old and feeble as she now was, she could scarce gain a livelihood for herself, much less for her son, who was thus at last compelled to depend upon his own resources for subsistence.

And was it by honest labour that he now sought to atone for his past misconduct? Oh no; that could hardly be expected from one whose habits and associates were such as his. A feeling of remorse might indeed have forced him from his state of dependency, but he lacked that principle and morality which should have shamed him of his worthless associates and vicious career. He scrupled not to join himself with a band of daring and hardened thieves, whom he had often met and conversed with in the village ale-houses. It was the readiest way of gaining a livelihood, so he betook himself to it.

Their depredations continued for a long time undiscovered, but the hour of retribution at last arrived. Jack, at the instigation of his companions, had determined on robbing one of the neighbouring farmers as he returned at night, with his pockets well lined, from the adjacent market town. He met the farmer, and struck him from his horse; but the blow, which should have stunned him, was ineffective, and a fearful struggle ensued. "Jack Wallace, I know you," cried the man, as their proximity now enabled him easily to recognize his antagonist. They were unlucky words. Fear of disgrace and punishment rendered Jack desperate, and urged him to the commission of a crime from which he would otherwise have shrunk. Collecting his whole strength for one decisive blow, he plunged the knife with which he was armed deep into the heart of the unfortunate farmer, who immediately relaxed his hold, and fell heavily to the ground-a corpse. Jack sprung up and hastily disappeared, without daring to cast a glance at the prostrate body.