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«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

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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.

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« 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,
And the recreant return'd to the cavern again;

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,
And he turn'd him five steps, half resolved to retreat;
But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose was gone,

Your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar on high; When he thought of the maiden of fair Lebanon.
But lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die.

«The green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt falls,
It leaves of your castle but levin-scorch'd walls;
The pure stream runs muddy; the gay hope is gone;
Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Lebanon,>>

O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed;
And she's ta'en a sword, should be sharp at her need;
And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's land,
To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's hand.

Small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie,

Scarce pass'd he the archway, the threshold scarce trod,
When the winds froin the four points of heaven wer

abroad:

They made each steel portal to rattle and ring,
And, borne on the blast, came the dread Fire-King.

Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he drew nigh,
The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high;
In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim
The dreadful approach of the monarch of flame.

Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in form,
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was storm;

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,
The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Lebanon.

Oh christian, brave christian, my love wouldst thou be,
Three things must thou do ere I hearken to thee:
Our laws and our worship on thee shalt thou take;
And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's sake.

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,
To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's land;
For my lord and my love then Count Albert I'll take,
When all this is accomplish'd for Zulema's sake.»>—

He has thrown by his helmet and cross-handled sword,
Renouncing his knighthood, denying his Lord;
le bas ta'en the green caftan, and turban put on,
For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon.

And in the dread cavern, deep deep under ground,
Which fifty steel gates and steel portals surround,
Be has watch'd until day-break, but sight saw he none,
Save the flame burning bright on its altar of stone.

Amazed was the princess, the Soldan amazed,
Sore murmur'd the priests as on Albert they gazed;
They search'd all his garments, and, under his weeds,
They found, and took from him, his rosary beads.

Again in the cavern, deep deep under ground,
He watch'd the lone night, while the winds whistled round;
Far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh,
The flame burn'd unmoved, and nought else did he spy.

Load murmur'd the priests, and amazed was the king,
While many dark spells of their witchcraft they sing,
They search'd Albert's body, and, lo! on his breast
Was the sign of the cross, by his father impress'd.

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!
The recreant receives the charmed gift on his knee:
The thunders grow distant, and faint gleam the fires,
As, borne on his whirlwind, the phantom retires.
Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim among,
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was strong;
And the Red-cross wax'd faint, and the Crescent came on,
From the day he commanded on Mount Lebanon.

From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave,
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the brave;
Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of St John,
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him came on.

The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets replied,
The lances were couch'd, and they closed on each side;
And horsemen and horses Count Albert o'erthrew,
Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin unto.

Against the charm'd blade which Count Albert did wield,
The fence had been vain of the king's Red-cross shield;
But a page thrust him forward the monarch before,
And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore.

So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stoop'd low
Before the cross'd shield, to his steel saddle-bow;
And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross his head,-
« Bonne grace, notre Dame,» he unwittingly said.

Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its virtue was o'er,
It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen more;
But true men have said, that the lightning's red wing
Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King.

He clench'd his set teeth, and his gauntletted hand;
He stretch'd with one buffet that page on the strand;
As back from the stripling the broken casque roll'd,
You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets of gold.
Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare
On those death-swimming eye-bails, and blood-clotted
hair;

For down came the Templars, like Cedron in flood,
And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood.

The Saracens, Kurdmans, and Ishmaelites yield
To the scallop, the saltier, and crosletted shield;
And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead,
From Bethsaida's fountains to Napthali's head.

The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain.

Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid the slain?
And who is yon page lies cold at his knee?-
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie.

The lady was buried in Salem's bless'd bound,
The count he was left to the vulture and hound:
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did bring;
His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King.

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,
As the tongue of yonder tower,
Slowly to the hills around,

Told the fourth, the fated hour!

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears;
Bristles high the rider's hair,

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;
Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour!
While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.

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,-
So to the simple swain tradition tells.-
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd,
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is beard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen:-
Forthwith the bubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale

Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast, he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'erawed, and trembling as he stands,
To what, or whom, he owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds..
Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168.

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,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

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
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
And, calling sinful man to pray,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd:

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.

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