O, will you hear a knightly tale

of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer

In wedlock bed he lay;
He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame,

That was as sweet as May,
And said, « Now, lady of my heart,
Attend the words I say.

« 'Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage

Unto a distant shrine,
And I must seek Saint Thomas-land,

And leave the land that's mine; Here shalt thou dwell the while in state,

So thou wilt pledge thy fay, That thou for my return wilt wait

Seven twelvemonths and a day.»


Then out and spoke that lady bright,

Sore troubled in her cheer,
« Now, tell me true, thou noble knight,

What order takest thou here;
And who shall lead thy vassal band,

And hold thy lordly sway,
And be thy lady's guardian true
When thou art far away ?»

IV. · Out spoke the noble Moringer,

« Of that have thou no care,
There's many a valiant gentleman

Of me holds living fair ;
The trustiest shall rule my land,

My vassals and my state,
And be a guardian tried and true
To thee, my lovely mate.

« As christian-man, I needs must keep

The vow which I have plight;
When I am far in foreign land,

Remember thy true knight;
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,

For vain were sorrow now,
But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Sioce God hath heard his vow.»

It was the poble Moringer

From bed he made him bowne,
And met him there his chamberlain,

With ewer and with gown:
He flung the mantle on his back,

"T was furrd with miniver,
He dipp'd his hand in water cold,
And bathed his forehead fair.

Now hear,» he said, «Sir Chamberlain,

True vassal art thou mine,
And such the trust that I repose

In that proved worth of thine,
For seven years shalt thou rule my towers,

And lead my vassal train,
And pledge thee for my lady's faith

Till I return again.»

The chamberlain was blunt and true,

And sturdily said he,
« Abide, my lord, and rule your own,

And take this rede from me;
That woman's faith 's a brittle trust-

Seven twelvemonths didst thou say?
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
Beyond the seventh fair day.»

The noble baron turn'd him round,

His heart was full of care,
His gallant esquire stood him nigh,

He was Marstetteu's heir,
To whom he spoke richt anxiously,

« Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust
When I am o'er the sea ?

« To watch and ward my castle strong,
• And to protect my land,
And to the hunting or the host

To lead my vassal band;
And pledge thee for my lady's faith,

Till seven long years are gone,
And guard her as Our Lady dear
Was guarded by Saint John.»

Marstetten's heir was kind and true,

But fiery, hot, and young,
And readily he answer made,

With too presumptuous tongue, « My noble lord, cast care away,

And on your journey wend, And trust this charge to me until Your pilgrimage have end.

XII. « Rely upon my plighted faith,

Which shall be truly tried, To guard your lands, and ward your towers,

And with your vassals ride ;
And for your lovely lady's faith,

So virtuous and so dear,
I'll gage my head it knows no change,
Be absent thirty year.»

The poble Moringer took cheer

When thus he heard him speak,
And doubt forsook his troubled brow,

And sorrow left his cheek; A long adieu he bids to all

loists top-sails and away,
And wapders in Saint Thomas-land
Seven twelvemonths and a day.

It was the noble Moringer

Within an orchard slept,
When on the baron's slombering sense

A boding vision crept;
And whisper'd in his ear a voice,

u 'T is time, Sir Knight, to wake, Thy lady and thine heritage

Another master take.

« Thy tower another banner knows,

Thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will

Thy gallant vassal train ;
And she, the lady of thy love,

So faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall,
She weds Marstetten's heir.»

It is the noble Moringer

Starts up and tears his beard, « Oh would that I had ne'er been born!

What tidings have I heard !
To lose my lordship and my lands

The less would be my care,
But, God! that e'er a squire untrue
Should wed my lady fair!

XVII. « () good Saint Thomas, hear,» he pray'd,

« My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs me of my land

Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy

That was so pure of name,
And I am far in foreiga land,
And must endure the shame.»

It was the good Saint Thomas, then,

Who heard his pilgrim's prayer,
And sent a sleep so deep and dead

That it o'erpower d his care ;
He waked in fair Bohemian land,

Outstretch'd beside a rill,
High on the right a castle stood,
Low on the left a mill.

The Moringer he started up

As one from spell unbound, And, dizzy with surprise and joy,

Gazed wildly all around; « I know my father's ancient towers,

The mill, the stream I know,
Now blessed be my patron saint
Who cheer'd his pilgrim's woe!»

He leant upon his pilgrim staff,

And to the mill he drew,
So alter'd was his goodly form,

Tbat none their master knew;
The baron to the miller said,

« Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be ?»

The miller answerd him again,

«He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land

Did a new bridegroom chuse;
Her husband died in distant land,

Such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls,

He was a worthy lord.

XXII. « Of him I held the little mill

Which wins me living free,
God rest the baron in his grave,

He still was kind to me;
And when Saint Martin's tide comes round,

And millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer
Shall have both cope and stole.

It was the noble Moringer

To climb the hill began,
And stood before the bolted gate

A woe and weary man;
« Now help me, every saint in heaven,

That can compassion take,
To gain the entrance of my hall,
This woful match to break.»

His very knock it sounded sad,

His call was sad and slow,
For heart and head, and voice and hand,

Were heavy all with woe;
And to the warder thus he spoke :

« Friend, to thy lady say,
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land
Craves harbour for a day.

XXV. « I've wander'd many a weary step,

My strength is well nigh dove,
And if she turn me from her gate

I'll see no morrow's sun;
I pray, for sweet Saiat Tbomas' sake,

A pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul..

It was the stalwart warder then

He came his dame before,
« A pilgrim worn and travel toild

Stands at the castle-door;
And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,

For harbour and for dole,
And for the sake of Moringer,
Thy noble husband's soul.

The lady's gentle heart was moved,

« Do up the gate,” she said,
« And bid the wanderer welcome be

To banquet and to bed;
And since he names my husband's name,

So that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage
A twelvemonth and a day.)

It was the stalwart warder then

Undid the portal broad,
It was the noble Moringer

Thrt o'er the threshold strode; « And have thou thaoks, kind Heaven, be saha

« Though from a man of sin, That the true lord stands here once more

His castle gate within.»

Then up the hall paced Moringer,

His step was sad and slow,
It sat full heavy on his heart,

None seem'd their lord to know; He sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with woe and wrong,
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him
Seem'd little space so long.

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,

And come was evening hour,
The time was nigh when new-made brides

Retire to nuptial bower;
« Our castle's wont,» a brides-man said,

Hath been both firm and long,
No guest to harbour in our halls
Til he shall chaunt a song.»

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there,

As he sat by the bride, « My merry minstrel folks,» quoth he,

« Lay shalm and harp aside; Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,

The castle's rule to hold;
And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold.»

« Chill flows the lay of frozen age,»

T was thus the pilgrim sung,
« Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,

Uelocks her heavy tongue;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,

At board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride,
With all her charms, was mine.

« But time traced furrows on my face,

And I grew silver-haird, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,

She left this brow and beard;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor,

I tread life's latest stage,
And mingle with your bridal mirth,
The lay of frozen age.»

It was the noble lady there

This woful lay that hears, And for the aged pilgrim's grief

Her eye was dimmd with tears ;
She bade her gallant cup-bearer

A golden beaker take,
And bear it to the palmer poor
To quaff it for her sake.

It was the noble Moringer

That dropp'd, amid the wide,
A bridal-ring of burning gold,

So costly and so fine;
Xov listen, genties, to my song,

It tells you but the sooth,
T was with that very ring of gold

He pledged his bridal truth,

XXXVI. Then to the cup-bearer he said,

« Do me one kindly deed, And should my better days return,

Full rich shall be thy meed;
Bear back the golden cup again

To yonder bride so gay, .
And crave her, of her courtesy,
To pledge the palmer gray.»

The cup-bearer was courtly bred,

Nor was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again,

And bore it to the bride ;
« Lady,» he said, « your reverend guest

Sends this, and bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy,
Thou pledge the palmer gray.”

The ring hath caught the lady's eye,

She views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud,

« The Moringer is here!»
Then might you see her start from seat,

While tears in torrents fell,
But whether 't was for joy or woe,
The ladies best can tell.

But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven,

And every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer

Before the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow,

That never was there bride
That had like her preserved her troth,
Or been so sorely tried.

XL. « Yes, here I claim the praise,» she said,

« To constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight

So stedfastly and true;
For count the term howe'er you will,

So that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out
When bells toll twelve to-night.»

It was Marstetten then rose up,

His falchion there he drew,
He kneel'd before the Moringer,

And down his weapon threw; « My oath and knightly faith are broke,

These were the words he said, « Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, And take thy vassal's head.»

The noble Moringer he smiled,

And then aloud did say,
« He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd

Seven twelvemonths and a day. My daughter now hath fifteen years,

Fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose,

And name her for my heir.

« The young bridegroom hath youthful bride,

The old bridegroom the old,
Whose faith was kept till term and tide

So punctually were told;

But blessings on the warder kind

That oped my castle-gate,
For had I come at morrow-ride,

I came a day too late.»


Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown

Dull Holland's tardy train;
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

And, foaming, guaw the chain ;

Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest.
Had we a difforence with some petty isle,
Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,
Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued :
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,
The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the froit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome-
It must not be.-No! as they are our foes,
Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to grart himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in asbes. —


0! had they mark'd the avenging call

Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their raoks bad mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,

Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,

In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scora ?

No! though destruction o'er the land

Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,

And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,

Or plunder's bloody gain ;
Uobribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our King, to fence our Law,

Nor shall their edge be vain.

Tue following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more succes ful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: « Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate.»

If ever breath of British gale

Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore,

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!

Adieu each tender tie!
Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,

To conquer, or to die.

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,

The bugles sound the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of Battle 's on the breeze,

Arouse ye, one and all!

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;

High sounds our bugle call;

From high Dunedio's towers we come,

A band of brothers true;
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue.'

"The Royal Colours.

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Gerda fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless to that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtened ta of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progress | by wbich the Alps, once the s-at of the most virtua people upon the Continent, have, at leagth, les au the citadel of a foreign and military despor. Astste en balf enslaved.

Combined by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is, Laws and Liberty !

March forward, one and all!

his harp, and composed the sweet melancholy air to which these verses are united, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.


DINAS EMlinn, lament, for the moment is nigh,

When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die; Air-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,

And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave. Tas Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade; cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, in repelling the invaders; and the following verses That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung. are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chep- Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, stow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side ; stream which divides the counties of Moomouth and But where is the harp shall give life to their name? Glamorgan : Caerphili, the scene of the supposed bat. And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame? tle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair ;

What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,

When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die? And hammers din and anvil sounds, And armourers, with iron toil,

Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene, Barb many a steed for battle's broil.

To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; Foul fall the hand which bends the steel

With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,
Around the courser's thundering heel,

And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades,

Uoconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Was heard afar the bugle-horn;

Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell !
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad should gleam,

In crimson light, on Rymoy's stream;
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel

0, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, The Norman charger's spurning heel.

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark

wood, And sooth they swore-the sun arose,

All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;

Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. For Clare's red banner, floating wide,

« 0, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!

Sweet Virgin! who bearest the suppliant's cry; And sooth they vowd--the trampled green Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, Showd where hot Neville's charge had been: My Heary restore, or let Eleanor die! In every sable hoof-tramp stood A Norman horseman's cardling blood'

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,

With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fai Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil

Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's drea That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;

rattle, Their orphans long the art may rue,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gak For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.

Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; No more the stamp of armed steed

Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ; Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;

Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, Nor trace be there, in early spring,

Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien. Save of the fairies' emerald ring.

« 0, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!

0, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. Deadly cold on yon heath thv brave lleury is lying; Arr-Dafydd y Garreg-wen,'

And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.

Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, Tukre is a tradition that Dafydd y Garreg-wen, a fa.

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with d ious Welsh Bard, being on his death-bed, called for


And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, David of the white Rock.

For ever he set to the brave and the fair.

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