«And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, That I should shrive to thee, When he, to whom are given the keys of earth and heaven, Has no power to pardon me?»> «O I am sent from a distant clime, Five thousand miles away, And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, Done here 'twixt night and day.»> The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye. NOTES. Note 1. Stanza xvii. From that fair dome, where suit is paid By blast of bugle free. The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery. Note 2. Stanza xvii. To Auchendinny's hazel glade. Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, below Pennycuik, the present residence of the ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq. author of The Man of Feeling, etc. Note 3. Stanza xvii. And haunted Woodhouselee. For the traditions connected with this ruinous mansion, see Notes to the ballad of Cadyow Castle,p. 451. Note 4. Stanza xviii. Who knows not Melville's beechy grove. Melville Castle, the seat of the honourable Robert Dundas, member for the county of Mid-Lothian, is delightfully situated upon the Eske, near Lasswade. It gives the title of viscount to his father, Lord Melville. Note 5. Stanza xviii. And Roslin's rocky glen. The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial residence of the ancient family of Saint Clair. The Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preservation, with the romantic and woody dell in which they are situated, belong to the right honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the repre sentative of the former lords of Roslin. Note 6. Stanza xviii. Dalkeith, which all the virtues love. The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged, of old, to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. The park extends Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond A house of more modern date is enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, përforated by winding caves, which, in former times, formed a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who jourave! from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower, Where Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade. Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea, at Musselburgh, no stream in Scot land can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic beautiful scenery. THE FIRE-KING. The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon di Eastern Taie. This ballad was written at the request of Mr LETS to be inserted in his Tales of Wonder. It is the thri in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementar Spirits. The story is, however, partly historical; for d is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Lat kingdom of Jerusalem, a Knight Templar, called Sar Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated ta christians in many combats, till he was finally roo!" and slain, in a conflict with King Baldwin, under t walls of Jerusalem. « And palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's wave, O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and brave? The priests they erase it with care and with pain, When the Crescent went back, and the Red-cross rush'd But, as he descended, a whisper there fell,— on, O saw ye him foremost on Mount Lebanon?»- O lady, fair lady, the tree green it O lady, fair lady, the stream pure grows; it flows; It was his good angel, who bade him farewell! High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd and beat, Your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar on high; When he thought of the maiden of fair Lebanon. «The green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt falls, O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed; Small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie, Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trod, abroad: They made each steel portal to rattle and ring, Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh, Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in form, Small thought on his faith, or his knighthood had he; I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was tame, A heathenish damsel his light heart had won, Oh christian, brave christian, my love wouldst thou be, And, next, in the cavern, where burns evermore The mystical flame which the Kurdmans adore, Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt thou wake; And this thou shall next do for Zulema's sake. And, last, thou shalt aid us with counsel and hand, He has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled sword, And in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground, Amazed was the princess, the Soldan amazed, Again in the cavern, deep deep under ground, Load murmur'd the priests, and amazed was the king, When he saw in his terrors the monarch of flame. In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmer'd through smoke, And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he spoke :-« With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, and no more, Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin adore.>> The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon; and, see! From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave, The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied, Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield, So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er, He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntletted hand; For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood, The Saracens, Kurdmans, and Ishmaelites yield The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain. Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid the slain? The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound, Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell, How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the Crescent it fell; And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, mid their glee, At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie. FREDERICK AND ALICE. THIS tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's Claudina von Villa Bella, where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvements, published it in his Tales of Wonder. FREDERICK leaves the land of France, Homeward hastes his steps to measure; Careless casts the parting glance On the scene of former pleasure. Joying in his prancing steed, Keen to prove his untried blade, Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead Over mountain, moor, and glade. Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, Lovely Alice wept alone; Moura'd o'er love's fond contract torn, Hope, and peace, and honour flown. Mark her breast's convulsive throbs! See, the tear of anguish flows!Mingling soon with bursting sobs, Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. Wild she curs'd, and wild she pray'd; Seven long days and nights are o'er; Death in pity brought his aid, As the village bell struck four. Far from her, and far from France, Faithless Frederick onward rides ; Marking, blythe, the morning's glance Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. Heard ye not the boding sound, Told the fourth, the fated hour! Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, Struck with strange mysterious fears.. Desperate, as his terrors rise, In the steed the spur he hides; From himself in vain he flies; Anxious, restless, on he rides. Seven long days, and seven long nights, Wild he wander'd, woe the while! Ceaseless care, and causeless frights, Urge his footsteps many a mile. Dark the seventh sad night descends; Weary, wet, and spent with toil, Where his head shall Frederick hide' Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle, By the lightning's flash descried. To the portal, dank and low, Fast his steed the wanderer bound; Down a ruin'd staircase slow, Next his darkling way he wound. Long drear vaults before him lie! Glimmering lights are seen to glide! « Blessed Mary, hear my cry! Deign a sinner's steps to guide!» Often lost their quivering beam, Still the lights move slow before, Till they rest their ghastly gleam Right against an iron door. Thundering voices from within, Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose; As they fell a solemn strain Lent its wild and wond'rous close! Midst the din, he seem'd to bear Voice of friends, by death removed; Well he knew that solemn air, T was the lay that Alice loved. Ilark! for now a solemn knell Four times on the still night broke: Four times, at its deaden'd swell, Echoes from the ruins spoke. As the lengthen'd clangors die, Slowly opes the iron door; Straight a banquet met his eye, But a funeral's form it wore! Coffins for the seats extend ; All with black the board was spread; Girt by parent, brother, friend, Long since number'd with the dead! Alice in her grave-clothes bound, Ghastly smiling, points a seat; All arose, with thundering sound; All the expected stranger greet. High their meagre arms they wave, Wild their notes of welcome swell;Welcome, traitor, to the grave! Perjured, bid the light farewell!» THE WILD HUNTSMEN. This is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German poet Bürger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sound of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, «Gluck zu, Falkenburg!» (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg) Dost thou wish me good sport?» answered a hoarse voice; thou shalt share the game;» and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a buntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in «Sully's Memoirs,» who says he was called, Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert. The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Ross-shire. Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross,- Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears A posthumous miracle of Father Lesly, a Scottish capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted reliques had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of Father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian. THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the briar, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallow'd day But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Halloo, halloo! and hark again! When, spurring from opposing sides, Two Stranger Horsemen join the train. Who was each Stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell. |