22.

Oh! then the Red-Cross Knight was pale,

And not a word could say ;

But his heart did swell, and his tears down fell,
And he almost swooned away.

23.

'Now fie on thee! thou weakly knight,

To weep for a lady dead;

Were I a noble knight like thee,

I would find another to wed.

24.

'So come, cheer up, and comfort

And be good company,

your heart,

While the mass is sung, and the bells are rung,

And we feast so merrily.'

25.

In vain that courtly lady strove

The sorrowing knight to cheer;

Each word he answered with a groan,
Each soothing with a tear.

26.

'And now farewell, thou noble lord,

And farewell, lady fair,

In pleasure and joy your hours employ,

Nor think of my despair.'

27.

'And where is her grave,' cried the Red-Cross Knight,

'The grave where she doth lie?'

Oh! I know it well,' cried the pilgrim-boy,

And I'll shew it thee hard by.'

28.

'I'm glad I've found thee, pilgrim-boy,
And thou shalt go with me,

And thou shalt guide to my lady's grave,
And great thy reward shall be.'

29.

Again he sighed, and wept forlorn,
For his lady that was dead;
'Lady, how sad thy wedding-tide,
How cold thy bridal-bed!'

30.

Thus the Red-Cross Knight complained and sighed, While all around did cry,

'Let the minstrels sing, and the bells out ring, And the feast eat merrily.'

31.

And now the gentle moon around

Her silver lustre shed,

Brightened each current, wall, and tower,

And distant mountain's head.

32.

By whose sweet light the knight his way
Hath ta'en, though not with joy,
And with him goes, on mounted steed,
The faithful pilgrim-boy.

33.

Oh! fast they sped, to reach the dead,
And few the words they spoke;
Save when the passing* convent bell
Fresh tears and sighs awoke.

*The bell which tolled for the dying.

34.

Save when at midnight, o'er the wold,
The priests did bend their way,
With taper bright and holy light,
For some sinful soul to pray.

35.

Then louder wailed the knight; and rued His fortune, to be torn

From a maid as fair, and true, and good As ever yet was born.

36.

Now slower sped that pilgrim-boy,
And reined his prancing steed,
Some sudden pang had seized his heart,
So formed for gentle deed.

37.

'Why art thou pale, thou pilgrim-boy?' The knight all wondering cried; 'Why dost thou pant, thou pilgrim-boy, When I am by thy side?'

38.

The knight he ran and clasped the youth,

And oped his pilgrim's vest,

And, lo! it was his lady fair,
His lady dear he pressed.

39.

'Grieve not for me, my faithful knight,' The lady faint did cry;

'I'm well content, my faithful knight, Though in thy arms I die.

40.

'As a pilgrim-boy I've followed thee,
In truth full cheerfully,

Resolved, if thou shouldst come to ill,
Dear knight, to die with thee.'

41.

'Nay, Heaven forfend,' the knight replied, 'And rather grant thee grace

To live for him—now, oh! how blest,
Who gazes on thy face!'

42.

But, see a hostel* by the road,

In time of need they spy;

And there his true-love he hath led
To gain fresh strength or die.

43.

And many a cordial quick they brought
To cheer her, from their hoard;
But, quicker than aught else, his smiles
That lady's heart restored.

44.

On palfrey now, and prancing steed,

They sped right gaily on;

Oh! never on fairer knight and maid

The rising sunbeams shone!

45.

And blessed was he, that Red-Cross Knight,

To find his sorrows o'er ;

And her, his long-lost love and life,

Never to leave him more.

* Inn.

46.

Castles and manors wide were given

To that knight so true and bold,
And the king and his court made merry sport
O'er their cups of pearl and gold.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE.

A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk; I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon, after a slight breakfast at my inn, where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again-old Thomas Billet, he has often made angle-rods for me when a child-I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold; I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood: I felt like a child; I prayed like one. It seemed as though old times were to return again. I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew ; but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited by turns every chamber; they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold: I touched the keys; I played some old Scottish tunes,