Along the lonely road they went
And waited for their prey,

They sate them down beside the stream
That crost the lonely way.

They sate them down beside the stream
And never a word they said,
They sate and listen'd silently
To hear the traveller's tread.

The night was calm, the night was dark,
No star was in the sky,

The wind it waved the willow boughs,
The stream flow'd quietly.

The night was calm, the air was still,
Sweet sung the nightingale ;
The soul of Jonathan was soothed,
His heart began to fail.

"'T is weary waiting here," he cried, "And now the hour is late, . . . Methinks he will not come to-night, No longer let us wait."

"Have patience, man! the ruffian said,

"A little we may wait;

But longer shall his wife expect

Her husband at the gate."

Then Jonathan grew sick at heart;

66

'My conscience yet is clear!

Jaspar.. it is not yet too late..
I will not linger here."

"How now!" cried Jaspar, "why, I thought Thy conscience was asleep;

No more such qualms, the night is dark,
The river here is deep."

"What matters that," said Jonathan,

Whose blood began to freeze, "When there is One above whose eye The deeds of darkness sees?"

"We are safe enough," said Jaspar then, "If that be all thy fear!

Nor eye above, nor eye below,

Can pierce the darkness here."

That instant as the murderer spake
There came a sudden light;
Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,
Though all around was night;

It hung upon the willow tree,
It hung upon the flood,
It gave to view the poplar isle,

And all the scene of blood.

The traveller who journies there,
He surely hath espied

A madman who has made his home
Upon the river's side.

His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,
His look bespeaks despair;
For Jaspar since that hour has made
His home unshelter'd there.

And fearful are his dreams at night,
And dread to him the day;
He thinks upon his untold crime,
And never dares to pray.

The summer suns, the winter storms,
O'er him unheeded roll,

For heavy is the weight of blood
Upon the maniac's soul.

Bath, 1798.

LORD WILLIAM.

An imitation of this Ballad in French verse, by J. F. Chatelain, was printed at Tournay, about 1820.

No

eye beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream,
No human ear 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's 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 the 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.